


Switch

by silvrhuntress



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:05:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvrhuntress/pseuds/silvrhuntress





	1. Chapter 1

_Friday, 7 a.m. EDT | 4 a.m. PDT_

A fist banging on the door dragged Sam back into consciousness. He opened his eyes and rolled over to the right, expecting to see Dean sleeping in the bed across the aisle. Instead, he got a mouth full of lint and a close-up view of a tight patterned tan weave.

“Wardrobe call!” came the shout from somewhere nearby, accompanied by more pounding.

Sam looked around and felt a jolt of adrenaline chase the last of the sleep fog from his brain. He wasn’t in some dive motel room, Bobby’s house, the Impala, or anywhere else that he could imagine falling sleep. No, he was somewhere… _nice_ , a long and narrow room that somehow felt all light and airy, despite the cramped quarters. A TV half the size of the Impala filled a cabinet, surrounded by electronics – DVD player, gaming consoles, a stereo that looked positively sinful…

To the left was a pair of doors, both pale wood. To the right was a kitchenette with a fridge, sink, microwave, and something that looked like a cross between a coffee maker and the Terminator, all brushed steel and gleaming black plastic. Between the sofa and the kitchenette was a narrow door set into the wall – the door that was currently trembling from the force of the fist pounding into it.

“Mr. Padalecki!”

Sam got up, feeling just a little dizzy and disoriented, and patted himself down to see if he had any weapons. Unfortunately, he didn’t have anything; he wasn’t Dean, sleeping with a knife under his pillow and a gun right beside the bed, even more blades hidden in his clothes. “Shit, shit,” he muttered, finally going to the door. It was recessed into a short stairwell and about half as narrow as it should have been, not to mention too short; he'd have to duck to get out.

He opened it and got a glare and a relieved look from a woman with a ball cap under a headset with a single earpiece and mic. “Finally! Wardrobe call. You’re – Oh,” she said, looking him up and down.

He couldn’t help but look for himself, wondering what was so unusual. Ripped jeans, T-shirt, button down.

“Yeah, I found Jared. He’s good on wardrobe. Want him in makeup?” the woman asked, holding a button down on the transceiver strapped to her hip. “Ok, copy that. Makeup, Jared,” she told him, and turned to hop down off the steps.

“Hey, whoa,” he called, catching her by the shoulder. “Wait.”

She glared at his hand until he jerked it away. Then she looked up at him, smiling very faintly. “What?”

“Uh, where’s –” He cut off, not sure how to ask where Dean was. Were they undercover? She’d called him by some other name, which meant he couldn’t ask for ‘Dean’. But Padalecki? That wasn’t one of his aliases.

Wordlessly, she pointed to Sam’s right and sighed, then jumped down and headed quickly down the street to his left.

The asphalt glittered wetly under the yellow glare of streetlights. Two rows of trailers lined the street, with low, rectangular buildings just visible across the way from where Sam stood. The sky overhead was dark and overcast; it was still nighttime.

Sam felt around in his pockets again before ducking back inside, frantic now, looking for a phone. He found a cell phone on the end table and unlocked it on the second try with a default combination: 1-2-3-4. As soon as it got signal, he punched in Dean’s number –

“We’re sorry. The number you are dialing is no longer in service.”

* * * * *

 _Friday, 7 a.m. EDT|4 a.m. PDT_

When Jared woke up, he thought it was just another dream, some weird flashback to high school’s fumbling attempts at getting laid in the backseat with a girl who really didn’t interest him. The seat was hard and cold, like vinyl, which was even stranger. Did they even make cars with vinyl seats anymore?

He sat up, banging his feet into one door and his head into the other, pushing the hair out of his eyes. “What the hell?” he muttered, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, feeling aches deep in his bones. He was fucking _freezing_ , and no wonder, given the rain sheeting down the windows, thundering on the roof.

Even stranger… he recognized the car, which explained the vinyl seats. So… what the hell was he doing in the back seat of one of the Impalas?

He dug around in his jeans, trying to find his cell phone, but… nothing. He’d dumped it on the end table before he’d flopped on the sofa to take a nap. They’d made it to the set on time, but the filming schedule had been pushed back, giving him a couple of extra hours to crash.

When he spotted Jensen lying across the front seat, he breathed a sigh of relief. Reaching over, he poked at him, saying, “Hey –”

Jensen woke like a striking snake, twisting and grabbing hold of Jared’s arm with one arm, the other coming up in a fist aimed right at his face. “Fuck!” Jared yelped, ducking behind the seat, feeling his left arm wrench at the shoulder.

“Dude!” Jensen protested, letting go and sitting up. He was wearing Dean’s brown leather jacket and amulet, which was almost as weird as the two of them sleeping in the Impala. “What the hell, man?”

“You tell me. Christ! You damn near ripped my arm out,” Jared complained, rubbing at his shoulder.

“What the hell are you poking at me for?” Jensen shot back, fumbling to sit up. “Fuck, it’s not even dawn, is it?”

“Where are we?” Jared asked, searching the backseat. He found a beige jacket, hardly sufficient against this cold, but better than nothing. He tugged it on, recognizing it as he did – it was from Wardrobe. “This is some prank you and Mish set up, isn’t it?”

“Huh?” Jensen twisted and fumbled the key into the ignition. The Impala’s engine roared to life, far louder than it had ever been on set, more like the stunt car than the one they usually used for their scenes. Icy air blasted out of the vents. “Damn, it’s cold. Gotta go take a piss,” Jensen announced, which was just a little TMI for Jared’s liking, before he got out of the car and headed into the rain.

Jared let his head fall back against the back of the seat, closing his eyes. Jensen was his best friend and Misha had just settled in with them like he’d always belonged, but _fuck_ this pranking shit was just getting old…

Well, he wasn’t about to follow Jensen in the woods to piss, so he moved up into the front seat, checking the various points where the crew would usually attach the cameras and mics, but there was nothing – no scarring, no bolt holes, nothing.

So he started searching the bags instead, and realized that Jensen and Misha were more fucked up than he’d expected. They’d _looted_ Props; Dean’s duffel bag contained not just the clothing and towels it usually would, but all sorts of personal stuff – right down to a used toothbrush, handcuffs, crumpled receipts, a first aid kit, foil-wrapped condoms, and a detritus of potato chip fragments and peanut M &Ms scattered on the bottom.

And then, there was the shotgun.

Like anyone from Texas, Jared had grown up around guns. He’d also been handling them for the last three years, so it was second nature to check the safety and to see if it was loaded. It was, in violation of set safety practices.

Oh, they were so, _so_ fucked.

Jensen got back into the car, which was finally heating up, now that the engine was warm. “You want breakfast or you ready to get started?”

“How about you start by telling me what the hell’s going on?” Jared challenged, checking the safety one last time before he put the shotgun down in the bag.

Jensen let out a huge yawn and scratched at his scalp. “I’m still betting it’s a wendigo. The kill cycle matches its hibernation pattern.”

It took a minute for that to filter through Jared’s consciousness. “Oh. Right. A wendigo,” he sighed, slumping against the window. “Don’t tell me. Misha’s out there in some stupid monster costume, waiting to jump out at me so I can shoot his ass full of rock salt?”

“What the fuck’s a ‘misha’?”

“Damn good question,” Jared muttered, feeling just a little betrayed. Misha was _his_ partner, his weapon to use against Jensen’s stoic nature when Jared’s own goofy, outlandish sense of humor couldn’t crack through Jensen’s serious shell. “Look, we’re gonna be late, and in a world of shit. Can I just say ‘you won’ now, so we can get back to the set?”

Jensen was staring at him, frowning in a baffled sort of way. “You drunk, man?”

“What? No!”

“Then what the hell are you talking about?”

“This! What’d you do, spike my coffee or something?” Jared demanded, growing angry at Jensen’s stubbornness.

Jensen’s scowl deepened. He twisted and leaned forward, green eyes dark in the half-light of the storm. “There something wrong, Sammy?”

“Sammy? What –” Jared cut off as understanding hit him. He sighed and slumped against the window again, groaning, “God, you two really outdid yourselves.”

“You want me to deck you, Sasquatch, or do you wanna start talking?”

“ _Please_ , Jensen, can we just –”

“Stop. Who the fuck is Jensen?”

Jared looked over at him. “Stop screwing around, dickhead.”

A dangerous glint came to Jensen’s green eyes. “This isn’t a good start to the morning, Sammy.”

“God! Just get us back to the fucking set already, will you?” Jared demanded, shoving Jensen back.

For one shocked moment, Jensen just stared at him. Then he _moved_ , faster than he had any right to, lunging at Jared without even brushing against the steering wheel, pinning him back against the window hard enough to make his skull ache. “Okay, asshole,” he growled, and suddenly there was a knife in his hand, glinting silver.

“Jen-” he yelped, jerking his head back as far as he could as the icy blade touched his throat. “Fuck!”

“Start talking, fucker,” Jensen growled in a voice that chilled Jared’s heart. “Where’s my brother?”

* * * * *

 _Friday, 7:05 a.m. EDT | 4:05 a.m. PDT_

“Jare?” The door creaked open.

Thank God; a voice he recognized.

 _“Castiel!”_ Sam snapped the cell phone shut and shoved it in his pocket, rushing toward the angel. He was standing in the footwell leading down to the trailer door, giving Sam that head-tilted-sharp-eyed expression that meant that he was confronting odd human behavior in the only way he could. “Oh, thank God, Castiel. I can’t get in touch with Dean.”

Castiel’s brows rose in surprise and his gaze skated over Sam’s body in a way that wasn’t quite… angelic. “I see,” he said enigmatically, in a voice more like Jimmy’s than the angel’s. He climbed the rest of the way into the trailer and pulled the door shut, saying, “Were you waiting for, ah, Dean?”

“I guess… Where is he? What the hell’s going on?”

The angel looked at him thoughtfully before turning away, crossing over to the kitchenette. He didn’t say anything as he opened one of the cabinets and pulled out a little plastic cup, a bit bigger than the half-and-half servings from diners. He dropped the cup into a drawer in the coffee pot, put a paper cup underneath a spout, closed the drawer, and pushed a few buttons.

“Cas?”

“Gimme a minute. I was on the phone with Vicky half the night. _Somebody_ told her about the stories about Castiel and Dean… You wouldn’t know who did that, would you?” he asked, smirking over at Sam. The coffee machine rumbled and steamed.

“What stories? Who’s Vicky?”

After the machine stopped gurgling, Castiel took the coffee cup out from under the spot and sniffed it, then closed his eyes and let out a blissful sigh. “Vicky. The woman with whom I’m cheating on you two. You know. My _wife_.”

“Your –” Sam faltered, panic making his heart thump in his chest. He could deal with waking up in some bizarre not-reality, though he would’ve felt better with Dean here. But for it to affect Castiel also… “Cas...”

The angel took a deep breath, inhaling the coffee-scented steam, and flexed his shoulders, kind of rolling his spine a bit. His bright blue eyes opened as he raised his head and suddenly it was _him_ in some indefinable way. “Sam Winchester,” he rasped, walking over. He transferred the coffee to his left hand and extended his right. “The boy with the demon blood. I’m glad to hear you’ve ceased your... extracurricular activities.”

Sam flinched, stung, his hands clenching into fists. “What the – Cas?”

Castiel half-shrugged, sipping at his coffee, and that sense of presence slipped away again. “Sorry. It’s not like we have much meaningful dialog together. The writers seem to have a fetish for me and the elder Winchester.”

“Okay. Just… stop,” Sam insisted, wishing he had some of that coffee for himself. “Please, just tell me what’s going on.”

Frowning, the angel moved close and sat down in the middle of the couch, right up next to Sam, rather than at the other end. His leg pressed against Sam’s from hip to ankle and his shoulder rubbed into Sam’s bicep. “Your pranking is normally of significantly higher quality than this, Jare. So either you’re trying something new and enigmatic – which isn’t your style – or something’s really wrong. Did you and Jensen have a fight?”

Entirely lost now, Sam shook his head. “I – I don’t – _Who are you?_ ” he asked desperately.

Gently, Castiel put an arm around his shoulders, his blue eyes filled with concern. “Jare, were you… _taking_ anything?”

“What?”

“Drugs?” he prompted.

“What? No!” Sam gasped.

“Drinking? Did you hit your head?”

“I – I don’t _think_ so,” Sam said worriedly, reaching up to run his fingers over his scalp. He didn’t have a headache at all…

 _At all._ No headache, no hunger clawing at his guts, no emptiness burning in his veins, even though it had been a good week since he’d seen Ruby. He’d wanted to call her to Pennsylvania, but there was no way he’d get away from Dean long enough, so he’d been holding off as best he could...

Castiel’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Jare?”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because you won’t let me call you Princess Sparklebutt?” Castiel teased, fingers twitching feather-light over the nape of his neck, sending shivers down his spine.

“Fuck – Cas!” Sam jumped to his feet and paced away, more than a little freaked out.

“Okay, that’s really getting a little weird. Don’t you know me?”

“I’m starting to think not!”

Frowning, Castiel leaned back on the couch and looked up at Sam, saying, “I’m Misha. Misha Collins. And I only play Castiel on TV.”

* * * * *

 _Friday, 7:10 a.m. EDT | 4:10 a.m. PDT_

“Okay, easy – Jensen, stop!” Jared yelled, ending in a screech when the knife dug into his throat. This wasn’t happening – it was _impossible!_ Even in their wildest, stupidest pranks, Jensen and Misha had never drawn blood! “Stop!” he cried, the sting of the knife turning wet and hot as blood dripped free.

Jensen’s green eyes were locked to the wound. After a couple of seconds, his dark brows drew down in a deep frown. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, onix legio, omnis congregatio et… et…” He trailed off, staring down at Jared’s incredulous expression.

“Jensen. Stop,” Jared said, with as much authority as he could muster, given that his best friend was sprawling on top of him so close they were practically fucking, with a knife to his throat, chanting Latin at him in the front seat of a prop car parked somewhere in a freezing, rainy forest – which, obviously, wasn’t much authority at all.

“Who are you?” Jensen asked, the knife edge rasping over Jared’s skin before he pulled back about a half inch.

Gasping in relief, Jared closed his eyes and swallowed. “Jensen. Look, man, I don’t know what happened, but it’ll all be okay. I’m your best friend. I’d never hurt you, okay?” he said as soothingly as he could.

“Stop fuckin’ calling me that!”

“What should –”

Then it hit him, even though it just wasn’t possible. He’d never heard of an actor going off the deep end and believing his role was real, but that didn’t mean it didn’t happen. And _Supernatural_ could get pretty damn intense, especially in the rush right before they broke for the holidays.

Hesitantly, terrified of the answer that would mean his friend really had gone off the deep end, he asked, “Dean?”

Jensen’s green eyes widened. “Sammy?”

 _Oh fuck._ Thinking fast, Jared nodded. “Yeah, Dean. It’s me.”

Jensen let out a relieved sigh and pushed off him. “Fuck, what _was_ that?”

“No idea,” Jared answered, both honestly and in his ‘Sam Winchester’ persona. He needed help. Fast. Because Jensen was smart and gentle and funny, but also could get scary as hell when he was angry. Or crazy. “I, uh… Nightmare or something. One of my headaches,” he added, remembering the ‘Azazel’s special kids’ storyline.

“Damn it,” Jensen sighed, making the knife vanish under his coat before gripping Jared’s shoulders tightly. “Scared the shit out of me, Sam. You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah. It was just really… real,” he finished lamely, struggling with keeping up his role, consumed with worry for his friend. This wasn’t just a prank – this was _scary_ , if Jensen thought he was really Dean Winchester.

Of course, if this was just some added layer of depth to the prank, Jensen was going to wake up bald and dyed pink, maybe with roses tattooed on his ass if Jared could get him drunk enough, best friend or not.

Either way, he needed to get in touch with someone on set. “Hey, uh, where’s my phone?” he asked casually.

“Check your pants yourself, bro,” Jensen snorted. “You need aspirin or a drink or something?”

“No, I’m good,” Jared said, searching himself before he reached down for the bags at his feet. He had no phone, no wallet – only his watch and the clothes he’d been wearing when Clif had picked him up at oh-shit-a.m. Thank God he’d had breakfast and at least one cup of coffee in the SUV on the way to the set.

“Hey. Stop fuckin’ with my underwear,” Jensen protested, slapping his hands away from the duffel bag. He detached the trunk key from the key ring, leaving the engine running, probably to keep the car warm. “Your shit’s in back, dude. I’m going to call Bobby, see if he’s got a line on something that fucks with memory _and_ eats people like a wendigo, just in case it wasn’t your – you know.”

 _Bobby. Bobby Singer._ Jared nodded, hiding his expression. This was definitely bad. “Good call,” he said, and they both opened the Impala doors at the same time. Thank God that the cadence of Sam Winchester’s words and actions had become second nature after three and a half years.

While Jensen went to root through the trunk, Jared dug around in ‘his’ backpack and found a Blackberry. He didn’t own one himself – he had an anonymous little flip phone he carried while at work and a loaded iPhone he used for personal calls and games – but he’d used it on the show enough to know generally how it worked.

Unfortunately, it was also locked, and none of the usual codes – 1-1-1-1 or 1-2-3-4 or 9-9-9-9 – did a damned thing. Cursing (and hoping the thing actually was a real phone and not just a fully-charged prop), he ducked back out into the rain and went around back.

“No, it full-on fried his memory for almost ten minutes. He didn’t even recognize me. Called me another name and –” Spotting Jared, Jensen flashed him that gorgeous, full grin he usually reserved for fan conventions and Jared’s heart skipped. “No, no bodies recovered. Yeah, we’ll start – Oh, like that doctor? Yeah… Good thought, Bobby.” He leaned into the trunk and did something in one of the recessed wells before pulling open the weapons locker.

Jared couldn’t help but gasp, feeling more than a little touch of fear when he saw it was _loaded_. God, Jensen and Misha must have ransacked the whole Props department. Three sawed-off shotguns, two rifles, a fucking M-16, antique-looking melee weapons of all kinds – silver, bronze, obsidian, even what looked like a little gold knife – all Velcroed to the lid. The bottom was filled with a disorganized chaos of ammo boxes, little leather sacks, a box of Kosher salt, a half dozen Zippo-style lighters… There were necklaces and charms and seashells and bundles of dried herbs and three rosaries draped everywhere, tangled up with crucifixes and pentagrams and things Jared couldn’t identify even after working on the show for as long as he had.

God, they were so, _so_ dead when they got back.

“Yeah, I got ‘em,” Jensen said, picking up the mess of necklaces. “You got it, man. Reception sucks, so leave a voice mail if you find anything. Thanks.” He hung up and pocketed his phone, working two leather thongs free. “Bobby’s got no fuckin’ clue, but he suggested quartz crystals and the obsidian knife. I think he’s going a little New Age on us.”

“Okay,” Jared said, wishing he’d thought to take the phone from Jensen. Had he been talking to Misha? Faking the conversation? He was a damned good actor, after all.

Jensen dropped the necklaces back in and rooted around until he found two pieces of quartz with cheap-looking silver settings glued in place. He strung the crystals, one per thong, and offered one to Jared before putting the other around his neck, right next to the gold amulet Dean wore. Jared put the necklace on, figuring he really didn’t have a choice other than to keep playing along with this… prank? Fantasy?

“You take the knife. You’re better with it than me,” Jensen invited.

This was starting to get even scarier. Well, at least if the thing was real, Jensen wouldn’t be potentially hurting himself or anyone else with it. Jared slid the obsidian blade out of its Velcro straps and asked, “Where’s a sheath?”

Grimacing, Jensen eyed the knife, which was leaf-shaped and wouldn’t fit into a normal sheath, and then picked up one of the leather bags. He sniffed at the contents and dumped them out on the ground behind the Impala – leaves of some sort – before offering Jared the bag. “Here, man. Best I can do.”

Carefully – the thing was _really_ sharp – Jared slid the knife into the bag and tucked it into an inside pocket of his jacket. “I, uh, think we should get something to eat before we do anything,” he suggested, pushing the wet hair out of his eyes.

“Dude. Like you need to grow more?” Jensen protested, closing the weapons locker. The trunk was also full, unlike how it was in the show, with a half-empty bag of rock salt – the kind used in a water softener – and a couple of shovels, a crowbar, a sledgehammer, a battered green cooler, and an open case of beer. He slammed the trunk and said, “There’s a couple sandwiches and stuff in the front.”

“Can’t we go to a…” No, Sam and Dean didn’t eat at restaurants, and it felt like it was about eight a.m., so a bar was out of the question. “A diner?”

“Nearest diner’s twenty miles down a dirt road, and I am _not_ trashing my baby’s suspension to feed your gut. Suck it up, Sasquatch,” Jensen said, going back around to the driver’s seat. “Get in. We’re heading out in ten. I want this thing dead and burned before nightfall.”

“Yeah. Ok. Hey, can you do me a favor?” Jared asked as he got into the passenger seat. “I can’t get this unlocked,” he said, offering the phone to Jensen.

“Dude, I don’t know your code. Remember? You didn’t want me reading your precious emails. Probably have bad porn on there, too,” Jensen scoffed.

Jared cursed and set the phone down, wondering how long it would take him to hack it, if he even could.

“Pass me one of those sandwiches, Sammy. And my other jacket. This one’s not warm enough for hiking in this weather.”

Sighing in resignation, Jared bent down to find the food.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 7:10 a.m. EDT | 4:10 a.m. PDT_

The only two things Sam could think of that could do this were a trickster god or a djinn. But this didn’t feel like a djinn’s wish-granting fantasy – not with him alone, without Dean – and nothing truly… _bad_ had happened to make him think of a trickster. (Yet, at least.)

But this... this went beyond weird. It was a half-size script, maybe six or seven pages, with dialog and notes and scribbles. Every line was _exactly_ the type of thing he’d say, only... not. Less cursing, for one.

“God,” he muttered for about the tenth time, paging through the script, a pit of ice in his gut. “Do… do you have any older scripts?”

“Somewhere, yes,” Misha said, looking at him worriedly. He was on the edge of the couch, leaning over, elbows on his knees, playing with his now-empty coffee cup. “Jared, you need to see a doctor. If you don’t remember any of this…”

“I _remember_ ,” Sam insisted, “but I’m not ‘Jared’! Fuck!” He put the script down on an end table and started pacing, running his hands through his hair.

“I don’t think fucking will help. Besides, Jensen would get jealous.”

“Who the hell is ‘Jensen’?”

Misha sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “Your best friend. He plays Dean.”

Sam snapped around, feeling a surge of hope. Maybe Dean was also caught up in this shit, after all. “Is he here? Somewhere?”

“Probably in makeup, which we’ll be late for in about ten minutes.”

“Can you get him here?”

Misha’s eyes narrowed and he studied Sam, biting his lip. Then he nodded and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. “Whatever you want, darling,” he said dryly.

Sam shook his head, _not_ mentally prepared to go there, and instead walked to the kitchenette to figure out how the coffee maker worked.

By the time Sam figured out the coffee, there was a knock on the trailer door. Before he could even turn, Misha was on his feet, answering it. “Jensen,” Misha sighed, sounding relieved.

Dean walked in, announcing, “Hi, honey. I’m home.” He looked perfectly normal, wearing a heavy blue jacket over jeans and layered shirts, gold amulet hanging from its old, worn thong. About the only odd thing was that his hair looked a shade too light, though that could have been the rain.

“Thank God,” Sam breathed, finally able to relax. “Uh, Misha, could you give us a few?”

“I think I should stay,” he said in a gentle tone, returning to his place in the middle of the sofa.

“A little early in the morning for a threesome,” Dean said suspiciously. “What’s so important that we’re all late for makeup?”

“ _Sam_ wants to talk to us,” Misha answered.

Dean shot him a quick look before walking over to the kitchenette. It was small enough that his presence made it crowded, but that just felt like the motels they called home. “This about the script?” he asked Sam uncertainly.

“You could say that.” Sam leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee, a little surprised at how good it was. “What do you remember about last night?”

“Oh, no,” Dean laughed, shaking his head, shooting Misha another look – this one more of a glare. “If you’re starting more rumors, Mish…”

Misha held up his hands innocently. “I’m an angel. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Bullshit.” Dean turned back to Sam, adding, “And you – the fangirls don’t need any more fuel for the fire. Besides, you can’t make Danneel jealous.”

“Dean,” Sam cut in, holding up a hand. “I’m serious. What happened last night?”

“Dean?”

“It’s a thing for the day,” Misha answered.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Okay… We got back to the house around four thirty. We had leftovers. I kicked your ass in a few games on the Xbox. We went running with the dogs. Went to bed at nine or ten. That’s it.”

Sam closed his eyes in frustration. “What happened to Pennsylvania? Sleeping in the car? The hunt?”

“What ‘hunt’?” Misha asked, getting back to his feet.

“God,” Sam sighed. “Okay, look. Something happened to you two, because _this isn’t real_. Dean, you and I were in Pennsylvania, where we were tracking something that killed some hikers. Castiel, you were… I don’t know. Wherever you go,” he said, faltering.

“I’m not part of the fantasy?” He pouted, crossing his arms, leaning against the side of the TV cabinet.

“Shut up, Mish,” Dean scolded, frowning worriedly at Sam. “Were you doing drugs, Jare?”

“Fuck. No!” he snapped, irritated. “And I wasn’t drinking, either!”

“We covered this already,” Misha added helpfully.

Sam glared at him – something he’d never do to Castiel – and demanded, “If he thinks he’s Misha Collings –”

“Collins.”

“Whatever. Who do you think you are?”

“Uh. Jensen Ackles. Remember?”

Sam shook his head, frustrated. “Obviously not. This has got to be a trickster. This is too weird for a djinn.”

Dean glanced over at Misha, curious. “Is Speight coming back?”

“I think he means the _trickster_ ,” Misha answered. “As in, this –” He waved a hand at the trailer. “– is all a… trick. Why don’t you tell him your name?”

Suspicious, Sam looked at Dean and countered, “What do _you_ think it is?”

“Jare. Jared Padalecki,” he said at once.

“Try Sam Winchester.”

“Oh, fuck.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Friday, 7:20 a.m. EDT | 4:20 a.m. PDT_

“Jared, you _really_ need to talk to someone –”

It was weird, hearing Castiel’s voice trying to coax, rather than command, but Sam chalked it up to one more difference between the real angel and the trickster’s magic. “No! Let’s – let’s just sort this out, okay? Just us three?”

Dean and Castiel exchanged a long look, almost the way they usually did, though without that electric tension between them. Finally Dean said, “I’ll stall. Tell everyone Jare’s puking his guts up or something.” He took a cell phone out of his pocket, stripped off his jacket, and threw the jacket onto the sofa.

“Okay,” Misha said, sounding unhappy. When Dean walked across the trailer, Misha took his place in the kitchenette with Jared, looking up at him with concern. “Jare – _Sam,_ we’ll try to help you, but… it’s okay if you talk to a doctor, too. This is a stressful career, and with everything going on with you and Jen…”

Sam shot a look at Dean, assuming ‘Jen’ stood for ‘Jensen’, and wondered just what was ‘going on’ between them. “Look. You think I’m this Jared Pada…”

“Padalecki.”

“Right,” he said, wondering what the fuck kind of name that was. “I think I’m Sam Winchester. So, since you know _both_ of us, what… differences are there?”

“Other than the fact that Sam’s a scripted character created for a TV show?” Misha asked wryly.

Sam smirked humorlessly. “Yeah. Hey – scars,” he said, looking down at his hands, still holding the paper coffee cup.

“Okay. Good,” Misha approved, flashing a very un-Castiel-like grin. “Hey Jensen! I’m getting Jared to strip!”

“Touch him and I kill you, Mish,” Dean yelled back.

“You two have a very possessive relationship,” Misha said, smirking at Sam, making an impatient little gesture. “Well? Get on with it. Let’s see what you’re hiding under there.”

“God. You really _aren’t_ Castiel,” Sam muttered, putting down his coffee. “And, uh… what do you mean, relationship? He’s my brother!”

Misha sighed, not even pretending to politely look away as Sam pulled off his jacket. “It’s – Hell, don’t worry about it. There’s nothing _really_ going on. We just play it up for the fans, that’s all. You and Jen have a very happy relationship,” he added, smiling.

“You just said –” Sam shook his head, putting his jacket on the counter. “‘Jen’ meaning Jensen?”

“G-E-N, meaning Genevieve. Your fiancée.”

“My – Oh, God,” Sam muttered, taking off his button-down and laying it on top of the jacket. “I’m _engaged_?”

“Well, you will be, once you ask her. I believe your publicists expect it to happen pretty soon.”

Sam closed his eyes, feeling more lost than ever, and pulled off his T-shirt. “God,” he muttered again, though it really didn’t seem to be helping.

Misha let out a low whistle and touched Sam’s chest, right over the tattoo, before Sam could even flinch away in surprise. “You really – Jensen, come look at this,” he called.

Dean walked over, eyes widening. “Unless you worked out for about six weeks between last night and this morning… Holy fuck. Is that _real_?”

“It’s not temporary,” Misha said grimly.

“Of course it’s real,” Sam protested, feeling just a little like a horse being sold at auction, with the two of them prodding at his bare chest. “You’ve got one, too.”

“Shit,” Dean breathed, going around behind Sam. “Mish – look,” he said tightly, touching the scar right over Sam’s spine, where Jake’s knife had ended his life.

“Dean,” Sam insisted, twisting to watch them both examine the scar. It felt more than a little odd, given that he’d _died_ from it. “Please, Dean. Just look at your tattoo.”

Dean walked back around, looking worriedly up into Sam’s eyes. He bit his lip, then stripped off his layered shirts.

“Oh, fuck,” Sam breathed, looking at a body that was definitely _not_ his brother’s. Castiel’s handprint was gone. There was no tattoo – not even the very few scars he’d gotten in the time since Castiel had rebuilt his body.

“This… this is a problem,” Misha said.

Dean – no, not Dean – _Jensen_ nodded. “No shit. This isn't _possible_ ,” Jensen insisted, sounding just as freaked out as Sam.

“Jensen, there's no way he could have done all that to himself since wardrobe yesterday. That tattoo is _old_ , at least a year or two,” Misha countered, sounding calm and rational.

Sam closed his eyes and started in on his second cup of very, very good coffee, then looked down at the too-short list he'd made. “Okay, I think I've got everything it could be.”

The two men – total strangers, though he'd known one for months and the other all his life – stopped their bickering and came over to him. “Let's hear it,” Misha prompted gently.

Sam took a deep breath and said, “Djinn. Trickster. A god. But I'm going to say a trickster is our best bet.”

“I can't believe I’m havin' this conversation with y’all,” Jensen muttered.

“Your Texas is showing,” Misha shot at him, before turning back to Sam. “Let's all assume that you're telling the truth about who you are. _We_ know you as Jared Padalecki. You've been acting the part of Sam Winchester for about three and a half years now. Your older brother is Jeff, your younger sister is Megan. Jensen's your best friend. You're lactose intolerant but you still love ice cream.”

“Whoa. Okay, _not_ me,” Sam said quickly. “No food allergies at all.”

Misha looked over at Jensen, who just scowled and eyed Sam's bare chest critically. “Mish, you realize if _he's_ not insane, _we_ probably are, right?”

“I accepted that long ago,” Misha declared. “It's the price of true genius.”

“Fuck,” Sam muttered in disbelief.

All three of them jumped when a fist pounded on the door once, before it opened. Fast as a startled cat, Misha lunged in front of Sam and turned to face the door as Jensen scrambled to his feet.

This time, Sam didn't recognize the man who stepped in, but he got the sense that Jensen and Misha did. “You're on your feet. You feeling better?” he demanded, looking right at Sam.

“Uh –”

“Good. Get to makeup, the three of you. _Now,_ ” the guy ordered, ducking back out the door.

“Well, fuck,” Jensen muttered.

“No time for that now, darling,” Misha shot right back, looking up over his shoulder at Sam. “How good are you at memorizing a script?”

“I, uh... did a play in high school once,” Sam managed to say.

“Great. You'll do just fine,” Misha said, taking away his coffee. “Get dressed. It's cold out there.”

* * * * *

 _Friday, 7:30 a.m. EDT | 4:30 a.m. PDT_

“Okay, let’s do this,” Jensen announced after ten minutes of listening to a tape that he must have put together himself, since the tapes in the car were all blank props. Hell, Jared hadn’t even known the radio really worked, but the one in this car sounded almost decent – for a car made before 1990.

“Do this?” Jared asked warily, brushing bread crumbs off his jeans.

Jensen smirked and leaned over, momentarily making Jared’s gut flip as one hand went between his legs. But Jensen just opened the glove compartment and pulled out an old cigar box full of fake IDs.

They weren’t just going to get fired when they got back on set. They were going to get arrested for theft. And then fired for good measure, once Eric found out what they’d done.

Obviously not concerned, Jensen finally settled on two and tossed one into Jared’s lap. He put the box back into the glove compartment, saying, “Come on, Ranger Grossi.” He flashed another grin and got out, taking his shotgun.

Jared shoved the ID into his jacket and opened his door, remembering at the last minute to open the back door and get his shotgun, since ‘Sam’ wouldn’t go into the field armed with only an obsidian knife. He stuck the sling over his shoulder, a little surprised that Jensen had gone the extra step of providing a sling at all. Most of the time on set, they just carried their sawed-offs in one hand. It looked good for the camera but was ridiculously impractical for the real world.

He let Jensen take the lead, both because that was what Sam would do and because he honestly had no fucking clue where they were. Plus, Jensen seemed pretty confident, heading right into the woods without even checking a map. God, he just hoped that Misha was there so they could wrap up this elaborate prank and get the hell back on set.

Jensen didn’t seem to give a damn about the rain. Jared could’ve lived without it, but he’d spent enough time getting soaked over the last three and a half years that it wasn’t really anything new. He just kept shoving his wet hair out of his eyes and concentrated on keeping the shotgun dry under his coat.

They walked in silence, with Jensen looking around warily, as if expecting to get jumped any moment, which set Jared on edge. After about a half hour, though, Jared’s nagging worries got the best of him and he asked, “How much longer –”

Jensen shot him a scathing look and turned, taking three quick steps back toward him, almost silent despite the thick carpet of wet leaves and branches. “Dude,” he whispered harshly, getting so close that Jared could feel his breath. “What the hell?”

“Sorry! How much longer is this gonna take?” Jared whispered back, worried.

“The mines are another few miles in. Bro, really,” he scolded again, shaking his head, and turned to walk away.

Despairing, Jared looked back in the direction of the car. He wasn’t an outdoorsman, but he had a pretty good sense of direction. He could probably find his way. But he wouldn’t abandon Jensen, even if he was an asshole of unimaginable scale for setting up this prank, because if this wasn’t a prank, then his best friend had really gone off the deep end, and needed him.

Spurred by loyalty, Jared sighed and went back to walking.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 8:30 a.m. EDT | 5:30 a.m. PDT_

“Hey. Stop,” Jared finally called as softly as he could after another hour of hiking.

Jensen looked around and sighed but backtracked to him, asking, “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… worried. Look, I’ve gone along with this, but this is going too far. Please tell me you’re not doing this to prove a point.”

Jensen gave him a strange look before he took Jared’s arm and tugged him under a pine tree sporting a thick coat of needles. It wasn’t quite dry, but it was definitely less wet than being out in the open. They’d both slung their shotguns, so Jensen’s hands were free to take Jared’s, rubbing over his skin, looking worried. “I’m sorry. I should’ve let you take more time to get ready this morning, but we don’t _have_ time. You warm enough, Sammy?” he asked, sounding for all the world like it mattered, even though he’d set up this stupid prank himself (or gone off the deep end).

Jared sighed, catching Jensen’s hands and stilling them for just a moment before he let go. He could still feel their warmth on his skin, making him shiver at the loss. “Not really, but that’s not the point. I’m trying…”

He trailed off as Jensen got close, putting an arm around his shoulders to pull him close. “We need to get you a better jacket. Sorry,” he apologized.

It took Jared a couple of tries to get any sort of coherent thoughts together. It wasn’t that he and Jensen never touched – it was the exact opposite. They roughhoused on set, hugged goodbye before heading to the airport (to avoid giving the fangirls even more material), shoved each other out of the way in the kitchen… All normal guy stuff. More than once, after a bad fight with a girlfriend or a rough day on set, they’d sat close on the couch, drinking and playing video games, just keeping each other company, usually under a pile of dogs.

But this felt… different. Definitely _not_ like Jensen, as if some sort of invisible line had been crossed. This wasn’t friendship – it was… caring.

When he could finally speak, Jared said, “I, uh, I think this has gone on long enough. We really should go back, Jensen.”

“Fuck, not again,” Jensen sighed, his arm tightening around Jared’s shoulders for a moment before he moved so they were face-to-face. Gripping Jared’s shoulders, he said intently, “Sammy, _focus_. You’re scaring me, bro.”

“I’m not ‘Sam’,” Jared said, frustrated. He took hold of Jensen’s forearms, not quite wanting to pull free of the surprisingly intimate contact. “Look, I’m not _angry_. I promise.”

“That makes one of us,” Jensen said ominously, his hands tightening. “Why do you keep calling me ‘Jensen’?”

“It’s your name!”

Jensen closed his eyes, then let go and stepped back, taking a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, Jared saw real worry and fear there. “Cas!” he said loudly, looking up into the pine needles overhead. “Castiel, you feathery bastard! Please, Cas – it’s important!”

Jared looked around, relieved and irritated all at once. Of course Misha would be involved in this idiocy. But he felt… well, just _strange_ thinking that Misha had been watching them.

“Dean.”

Even expecting a dramatic entrance, Jared was caught off-guard and yelped in surprise. Misha was just _there_ , standing behind Dean, his trench coat somehow completely dry except for the spots of rain beginning to appear on his shoulders. He was completely in character, from his rumpled suit and skewed tie to his spiky hair and the low, growling voice that he used as Castiel.

Jensen didn’t handle the sudden appearance any better, judging by the way he glared and spun to face Misha. “Fuck. Thanks, Cas,” he breathed, gesturing at Jared. “Something’s wrong with Sammy.”

“Misha,” Jared said, taking a step closer.

Misha’s blue eyes widened and he flung out a hand –

 _Something_ hit him hard enough to send him sprawling on his ass in the wet leaves, dull pain spreading through his body from the impact.

“That’s not Sam,” Misha declared in an ominous voice.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 8:35 a.m. EDT | 5:35 a.m. PDT_

Jared started to roll to his feet but froze as soon as he saw the muzzle of the shotgun leveled right toward him. His gut went cold and his breath caught in his throat. “Jen-”

“Shut up,” Jensen snapped in a rage so cold that he seemed like a complete stranger. “Cas, a little help here?”

Misha walked slowly forward, trench coat flapping around his legs, and looked down at him with that eerie intensity in his blue eyes that the fans loved so much. “I… I don’t –” He tilted his head just slightly, mannerisms _perfect_ , just alien enough that he didn’t seem human with the way his hands were just hanging by his side, shoulders squared.

“Cas!” The shotgun didn’t waver in Jensen’s hands.

“I don’t understand,” Misha said softly, turning that intense gaze on Dean in just the way he always did when they were filming.

“Misha – enough,” Jared said, though without any real conviction.

Misha didn’t even look back as he asked, “Who’s Misha?”

“Fuck if I know,” Jensen said, never looking away from Jared.

“You! Castiel!” Jared added, starting to shiver from the cold rain soaking through his clothes, not quite believing he was playing into their hands like this. He’d never live this down, but it had gone on long enough.

Misha’s gaze snapped back to him. “You believe I’m someone else?”

“Fuck,” Jared muttered. “Yes. Misha Collins. Obviously. Can I get up? I’m freezing my ass off!”

“Try it and you’ll see how much rock salt hurts,” Jensen threatened ominously.

Misha walked over to where Jared was sprawled. He extended his hand as if to touch Jared’s face. Irritated, Jared snapped, “Don’t!” and went to swat his hand away.

It was like hitting a fucking tree. His arm didn’t even twitch, much less move, which was absolutely fucking impossible. Misha kept in shape, but he didn’t work out like Jared and Jensen did.

Instead of getting irritated, Misha just crouched down, gave that trademark Castiel head-tilt, and set his palm right on Jared’s forehead. Jared tried to jerk his head back but Misha simply leaned forward with him, maintaining contact for another few seconds.

Then he rose, asking, “Is the Impala nearby?”

“Couple miles that way,” Jensen said, puzzled, pointing off in the direction they’d come from. “Cas, what the hell’s going on?”

“This man is not your brother. He’s also not an enemy. He’s… an analogous form of your brother.”

“A _what_?” Jared and Jensen both asked, in near-perfect synchronicity.

“It’s difficult to explain. He’s from a different incarnation. He’s _almost_ Sam Winchester – nearly identical to a cellular level, though he doesn’t share your genetics. You are not brothers by blood.”

“So where’s _my_ Sam?”

“Hey. Just stop,” Jared interrupted. “You two are taking this a little too far.”

Misha took a deep breath and sighed. “For all that you both do, you still have no faith,” he said –

And Jared couldn’t hide his gasp as the air behind Misha darkened like wings spreading over them. Jared could _see_ the rain bouncing off… nothing, impossibly gathering in little channels before dripping in sheets like you’d find at the edge of an umbrella. _Feathers! Real fucking wings!_

“Jared Tristan Padalecki,” he said, and the tree overhead trembled. Pine needles rained down over them, suspended from the invisible wings beneath which they sheltered, before running down in the channels of rainwater. “I am Castiel, angel of the Lord.”

“God,” Jared whispered, seeing the _impossible_. He was no special effects wizard but he knew there was no way to create this sort of effect – not when he could see there were no wires or tricks of lighting or anything that could cause the rain to just… not fall like that, except for invisible wings.

Castiel turned and said, “He is not a threat, Dean. I need to leave my vessel somewhere safe. It will be in the Impala. Do not disturb me again until I return to you.”

“Yeah. Sure –”

The angel _vanished_ , between one blink and the next, and Jared flinched as a torrent of water and pine needles splashed down onto him. He shook his head, wiping at his eyes, staring up at –

At –

“Yeah,” Dean Winchester said, letting the shotgun hang from its sling again, extending his hand to Jared. Automatically, Jared accepted and Dean helped him back to his feet. “He has that effect.”

“I can’t – Dean,” he breathed, still clasping Dean’s forearm, reaching out to put his left hand on Dean’s chest, not believing this could possibly be real.

Instead of answering, Dean pulled open Jared’s jacket and reclaimed the pouch with the obsidian knife. “You know how to use that shogtun… Jared?”

Swallowing, his throat dry, Jared nodded. “Yeah. But I’ve never – I mean, I’ve hunted, sort of –”

“First time for everything,” Dean said, shoving the knife into his own pocket. He zipped Jared’s jacket back up and said, “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can figure this shit out. Just follow my lead. And if I say run, you _run_. Understand? No heroics.”

“God. Yeah. Okay,” Jared said, reassured by the weight of the shotgun hanging from his shoulder.

Dean’s grin reappeared and he clapped Jared’s arm. “Dude. You’ll be fine. I gotcha covered,” he promised, heading off in the direction they’d been walking once more.

Numbly, Jared followed Dean Winchester as he had for the last three and a half years… only this time, there were no cameras to record the moment. Which was, he thought in a vaguely crazy way, actually a shame, because he sure as hell wouldn’t believe this was real when he woke up tomorrow.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 9:15 a.m. EDT | 6:15 a.m. PDT_

The first time Jared saw the pale marks gouged high up in a tree, he ignored them, figuring if they meant anything, Dean would’ve noticed. The second time, though, he stopped, squinting up through the rain, and made a little hissing sound, not wanting to whistle for fear it would carry.

Dean turned and jogged a few steps back, swinging his shotgun up automatically when he saw the direction of Jared’s attention. “Huh,” he grunted softly, giving Jared a nod of approval that sent a warm flush through him. “You want to go up or cover me?”

Jared looked at the tree and couldn’t help but grin like a kid at a playground. His agent would freak, screaming things about stunt doubles and broken limbs, but his agent was nowhere nearby. “I’ll go,” he said at once, moving his shotgun to hang out of the way, across his back. He jumped a bit to catch the lowest branch with enough momentum to kick one leg up.

It had been ages since he’d climbed a tree, but he’d always been athletic. Since taking the Supernatural gig, he’d gotten serious about working out, so he easily had the strength to hoist himself from branch to branch, until he was close-up with the gouges. He glanced down and saw Dean wasn’t even watching, but was instead looking around the area, shotgun held ready. He didn’t know if he should be pleased that Dean trusted him not to kill himself or unhappy that Dean hadn’t wanted to watch.

Fuck it. He had a job to do – a _real_ one. Once his footing was secure, he leaned in close to the gouges, feeling them. There was no sticky sap, and though he wasn’t an expert, they felt old and weathered. Maybe a season or two was his guess, since he didn’t exactly know how long it took for bark to grow back.

He took his time memorizing the shape of the gouges, then started searching the area. Almost immediately, he found a dark lump resting on a branch; he picked the thing up without thinking and was rewarded with a crunchy-squishy feel that turned his stomach.

It was too dark to see much in the shadowy tree branches, what with the rain and all, so he whispered, “Move!” to warn Dean to get out of the way. He dropped down from branch to branch, remembering to absorb the shock of his final landing on bent knees, like his stunt coach had taught.

He held his prize out, expecting Dean to take it, but he just transferred the shotgun to one hand and pulled out a flashlight with the other. When the beam hit the trophy, Jared nearly dropped it in disgust.

It was the head of a bird, eyes gone, feathers sticking out everywhere. There was no flesh left, so thankfully there were no maggots, but there were more than a few dead bugs littering Jared’s palm.

“Snacking between meals’ll get you fat, Sasquatch,” Dean teased mercilessly, leaning in to get a closer look.

Gallows humor at its finest. Grinning, Jared was torn between throwing the head away and shoving it at Dean’s face. He did neither; Dean had a shotgun, after all.

“What about the marks in the tree? They look natural?”

“How would I know?” Jared asked honestly.

Dean snorted, though not in contempt. “How many?”

“Five. I could fit my hand over them.” Looking up, he considered for a moment, thinking about bears. As far as he knew, bears didn’t eat birds. He wasn’t sure if bears had four or five claws, either, but one… “It was a _hand_. One mark was low, like a thumb,” he said, holding his hand out, fingers spread.

“Fuck.” Dean nodded, taking the flashlight in his teeth so he could pick up the dead bird’s head. He held it in the beam and turned it, examining it thoroughly, before he tossed it away.

Both men wiped their hands on their jeans as if wanting to erase the way the thing had felt.

“Four fingers and a thumb would make me think wendigo, except wendigo eat human flesh exclusively. Not birds.”

“Maybe the head dropped there from a hawk or something?” Jared guessed.

“Maybe,” Dean agreed, eyeing the tree. “But that was also really fucking high up. Not like a wendigo needs to mark its territory, so it had to be climbing up there for a reason.”

Jared’s gut gave a little flip as he asked, “What if it was chasing someone? A person? And that person climbed up to escape?”

Dean shot him another approving grin. “Good thought. But there’d probably be a whole lot more damage – broken branches, more gouged bark.”

“From a struggle. Yeah.”

Dean nodded. “Believe me, if a wendigo was on your ass, you’d be struggling a hell of a lot.”

Remembering the shadowy figure the effects team had put together, Jared didn’t argue. “If it’s not a wendigo, what do you think it is?”

“Fuck if I know,” Dean admitted. “Nice work spotting it,” he added, clasping Jared’s shoulder before he headed out from under the tree.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 9:45 a.m. EDT | 6:45 a.m. PDT_

The screech was high and sounded distant, though it still sent a chill straight through Jared’s body, right down his spine. Dean froze; Jared could swear that if he were a dog, his ears would’ve perked and his hackles would be up. He looked around side to side and the shotgun was in his hands, though Jared hadn’t noticed him move.

He pointed ahead and right and started running, looking for all the world like a wolf tracking a scent. There was something just… _perfect_ about it, making Jared feel clumsy running after him. He did enough of his own stunts and enough running through the woods (and graveyards) that he kept his footing without any real problems. He was pretty quiet, too, all things considered. But still, it just came naturally to Dean, where Jared had to work for it.

When the shadow came out of the woods – some _thing_ , all skinny and sinuous with legs that are built wrong and some massive shape around its upper half – it was as if it just materialized out of nowhere. It barreled right into Dean, taking him down with a deafening, high screech, body bending almost in half.

Jared let out a shout as Dean got his shotgun up and fired, point-blank, but Jared knew that the rock salt wouldn’t do more than sting. He cursed the rain and shadows that kept him from getting a good look at the thing and tracked it with his shotgun, screaming, “Dean!”

The thing twisted as if to face him, only its body didn’t quite look human – it was too long, too skinny, with limbs that were just too gangly for that bulky upper body.

A second shot fired out, this one sharper, and the thing let out a high, keening sound. It leaped with a sound like thunder and ran away with unnatural speed, right ahead of the shot Jared managed to fire once he was sure it was clear of Dean.

“Fuck!” Dean groaned, rolling to his feet. The shotgun swung free on its sling; he clutched a pearl-handled automatic, aiming it after the thing. Little puffs of fiberfill came out of his jacket like snow, and Jared was pretty sure some of them were tinged red with blood, but Dean was already running again, shouting, “Come on! After that fucker!”

And the chase was on, a nightmare of grey rain like ice, slippery leaves in autumnal golds and reds, and distant screeches that made the two men flinch every time, without fail. Jared couldn’t help but think of how the thing had come out of _nowhere_ – refused to think of exactly what the fuck it could be – and every shadow he ran past suddenly became menacing.

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes before Dean called a stop, but it felt like an entire lifetime and more. Adrenalin still sang through Jared’s veins; his every sense was alert, focused like never before. Even the air tasted different.

“Okay. Stop. Think,” Dean panted, leaning over and rubbing at his chest with one hand, the other braced on his knee. “Fucking bastard!”

“You were hurt.” Jared didn’t stop to think. He let the shotgun go on its sling and pulled Dean’s hand away, gently peeling back the wet jacket.

There were five neat holes in Dean’s layers of shirts, all bloody, with lines of fading crimson tracing up in ragged, messy patterns. Cursing, Jared pulled the shirt away, which made Dean curse even more, though he just moved his head out of the way to let Jared get a better look.

And holy crap, Dean had the fucking tattoo, _just like in the show_ , now scored up by whatever had cut him. The punctures weren’t too bad and didn’t look deep. “I think it stepped on you,” Jared guessed, remembering one bad run-in with Harley after waiting too long to get his nails trimmed. The wounds had looked similar, though they hadn’t broken skin: little dark, bloody bruises where Harley’s nails had dug in, with lighter scrapes fading to nothingness from where he’d bounded off, leaving behind one scrape for each nail.

“Fuckin’ always me. Why don’t they ever fuckin’ step on you, Sammy?” Dean asked, before his head snapped up. “Hey. Sorry, Jared.”

“It’s fine. There’s this resemblance, I’m sure,” Jared said dryly, though he couldn’t help but grin like an idiot.

Dean’s green eyes lit up and he gave a matching grin. “Nah. You’re not near as dorky.”

Jared laughed, warmed inside despite the icy rain, staring into Dean’s eyes like he wanted to just fall right in. For one moment, everything seemed to stand still, like in a damned movie or something, and Jared realized that _Dean_ was most definitely not Jensen. There was a hard edge to him that Jensen could summon up when acting, but that didn’t exist when he was away from the cameras. Jensen was fiercely competitive about his video games, loyal in his friendship and love, gentle with Icarus, but… he wasn’t Dean Winchester.

And Dean, for all his resemblance, wasn’t his best friend, but… If Jared was Sam, then he wasn’t almost engaged to anyone, at least if his life was anything like what the writers had created. Hell, Dean might not even be _straight_. Sure, the writers played it up – a pair of straight, hot brothers appealed more to the fanbase, male and female alike – but look what they’d started doing with Dean and Castiel. According to some of the more rabid fans, it went all the way back to Dean and Sam in that very first fight during the Pilot, when they’d been all over each other. And that moment Dean had shoved Sam into the support pillar on the bridge had spurred more than one fanfic, much to Misha’s delight.

Jared would have sooner died than admit to reading them.

Dean’s eyes narrowed a bit, but one corner of his mouth quirked up even higher, like he was trying to get into Jared’s thoughts.

“Sorry,” Jared said, looking around at nothing but leaves and trees and _wet_ everywhere. He shivered entirely because of the cold and not at all because of how Dean was still staring at him, or so he told himself. “You have a bandage?”

“It’s cool. Let it bleed out. Clean out any shit the thing had,” Dean said casually, shrugging his ruined clothes back into place, the quintessential tough guy. “That was no fucking wendigo, I’ll tell you.”

“It didn’t look like –” Jared hesitated. He’d seen the CGI version of ghosts, but was that real? “It didn’t seem very ghost-like,” he finally said.

“No. But I think I know what it was, fucker.” This time, with the green eyes narrowed and no smile, Dean just looked dangerous. “Jersey fucking devil.”

“What?”

“A Jersey devil. Legends date back to before the Euros showed up here. Baby born in midwinter, deformed, left outside to die. Only it doesn’t die – it turns into a monster that lives in the wood and drinks blood from humans or animals. It’s probably been climbing trees to feed on birds.” He narrowed his eyes, rubbing at his wounded chest. “They’ve never been sighted outside New Jersey, but over the past few years, it’s like the monsters all went on vacation to new and exciting spots,” he added dryly.

 _God, he’s serious,_ Jared thought. The thought sent chills down his spine, ones that had nothing to do with the cold rain or Dean’s dangerous appeal, this time. “Okay,” he said, wondering what Sam would do in his place. “Is, ah, this the part where we go back to town for research?”

“No time. Those Scouts will be here too soon.”

Jared arched a brow, looking at the green-eyed hunter, thinking back to what he knew of Dean’s personality (or the writers’ interpretation…) “This is the part where you say we just kill the bastard?” he guessed.

Dean grinned fiercely in approval. “You got it, Jared. Let’s go bag us a devil.”

* * * * *

 _Friday, 10:30 a.m. EDT | 7:30 a.m. PDT_

It was only Sam’s practice at playing roles – though very different ones – that got him onto the set without raising any suspicions. He played up being sick to explain why he wasn’t apparently as gregarious as Jared usually was.

Jensen got pulled away almost immediately, but Misha stuck by Jared’s side. Apparently that wasn’t too unusual; at least, no one gave them strange looks.

Even better, Misha kept up a low-voiced, running commentary, supplying Sam with names and advice on Jared’s normal interactions with people. His hints of “Say hi, not hey” and “Flirt with her a little – it won’t kill you” were invaluable in maintaining his cover.

Of course, the people themselves made it easy, too. His one venture into Hollywood society hadn’t exactly impressed him. Everyone was professional, but not _friendly_ – not like they were here. And despite Jared having top billing on the show, he’d apparently established a reputation as someone who was approachable and easygoing, by the genuinely happy greetings Sam received from just about everyone.

“So, who started all this? Who wrote it?” Sam asked very quietly, taking a seat at the very back of the set, in the shadows behind some lighting equipment.

“Supernatural?” When Sam nodded, Misha settled down beside him, thoughtfully looking toward where Jensen was talking to the director – Steve Boyum, according to Misha – as members of the crew got ready for the shot. “Eric Kripke, actually. He’s not here today, though. He only directs some of the episodes.”

“Eric Kripke,” Sam said thoughtfully, slouching back in his chair. “What do you know about him?”

Misha tilted his head, Castiel-style. “Not much. He plays things very close, though. Keeps the scripts secret. Hell, when I auditioned for Castiel, the part was for a demon, not an angel.”

Castiel, a _demon?_ Had this Eric Kripke gotten things wrong, or was there something more behind it? As casually as he could manage, he asked, “A demon, really?”

“He didn’t want the fans to hear that they were introducing angels to the mythology.”

“So, you don’t think he intended to keep you – uh, Castiel, I mean – as a demon?”

“No, I don’t...”

Sam nodded, but he wasn’t buying it. It hadn’t occurred to him, but a crossroads deal might be enough to rip him out of his world and into... whatever _this_ was, if it was even real. Which meant that this Eric Kripke could be a witch or just an idiot who’d sold his soul for the sake of television.

“If he shows up, point him out to me, okay?”

Misha didn’t answer immediately. He just stared at Sam, blue eyes just as piercing as Castiel’s had ever been. “All right,” he finally said, looking back toward the set.

Sam gave him a slightly forced smile as he had another even more disconcerting thought: He had no reason to trust Misha – or Jensen, for that matter. If anyone involved in the cast was behind this, then he had to suspect all of them.

 _Fuck,_ he thought, closing his eyes and silently, desperately praying for anyone – Castiel, Ruby... anyone at all who might help him.


	3. Chapter 3

_Friday, 10:30 a.m. EDT | 7:30 a.m. PDT_

Every time they heard another distant screech, they braced for an attack, bringing up their shotguns and backing against each other to cover every angle possible. Jared was just stunned at how quickly and smoothly he and Dean had fallen into a pattern of working together, trusting each other. It was… it was like working with Jensen, hitting every mark, delivering every line perfectly, only it was _real_.

“Dean,” Jared whispered over his shoulder, not quite turning away from his scan of the immediate area.

Dean shifted against his back, his body warm against Jared’s despite their soaked clothes and the cold rain that had them both shivering every time they stopped moving. “Huh?”

“Why’d we hear it far away when it attacked from close up?”

“Fuck.” Dean got silent, leaning against Jared’s back for a moment as he shifted his weight. “God damn. Okay, it’s either throwing its voice…”

“Or there’s more than one.”

“Fuck,” he muttered again. Jared felt Dean shift again before stepping away. “Damn.

“What about tracks?” Jared asked.

Dean snorted mirthlessly. “It’s got wings, man. It can fly – or at least glide.”

“Okay,” he said, an idea suddenly coming to life in his mind. “This devil eats animals as well as humans, right?”

“Yeah. Livestock if there’s any in the area. If not…” Dean shrugged.

Jared finally turned away from the darkness under the trees and asked, “There were no reports about dead wild animals in the area?”

Dean frowned a bit, though not in irritation. “No…”

Encouraged, Jared said, “Then it’s taking the carcasses somewhere to eat them. Maybe hiding the bones or whatever it doesn’t eat.”

“Right… Caves. Mines.”

“A den.”

“At least we’re headed in the right direction. We scoped out the locations of the mines and caves in this area when we thought we were after a wendigo. But damn, I hate the fucking rain,” he sighed, gesturing to get back to walking. “You’ve got good instincts for this.”

Jared smiled wryly. “I can’t say I don’t envy what you and Sam have, you know – despite all the bad shit.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“I’m serious. What you two do – it’s a hell of a lot more important than _acting_. It’s real. You save lives.”

“Did your show not cover the dying parts?” Dean snorted wryly.

“Well, yeah.” Jared glanced at Dean, walking comfortably beside him, shotguns held ready, and finally shook his head. “I can’t explain.”

“You know, Sam – he’d say the exact fuckin’ opposite. All he ever wanted was to live normal, only he kept getting dragged back in. It was the only way I could keep him safe,” he added harshly. “Do you know what happened to Jess? His girl, back at Stanford?”

“God, that was real, too?” Jared asked, feeling a little sick at the thought.

Dean nodded once, a jerky motion that matched the tension in his shoulders and the set of his jaw. “I knew something was gonna happen. I just – I knew it and I had to stay there. Had to be there for him. That’s the only reason he got out. Otherwise, he would’ve died there.” Dean looked at Jared grimly, saying, “That’s why I can’t let him stop hunting. He’s got this… fucked up destiny, the demon blood, all of it. And if I let him go…”

Jared nodded, a little shocked at the raw emotion in Dean’s voice. Dean was the cocky, brash hardass; the writers didn’t even try to give him emotional scenes, saving the ‘chick flick moments’ for Sam instead, except when they could use his fierce protectiveness to give him those moments of unexpected depth. “Yeah. I get – Oh, shit,” he said, coming to an abrupt halt, looking down at himself. “If I’m – If I’m sort of Sam… do _I_ have demon blood in me?” he asked, not quite able to believe he was actually asking that with a straight face.

Dean shrugged, unconcerned, and took Jared’s arm to get him moving again. “If you do, don’t worry about it. At least you’re not fucking a demon chick.” He shot Jared a look, arching a brow. “Are you?”

Jared let out a bitter little laugh. “Um. Kind of, though –”

This time, it was Dean who stopped, squinting up at him through the rain. “You’re ‘kind of’ fucking a demon?”

“Genevieve. The, uh, actress who plays Ruby.”

“Oh, come on,” Dean sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck again. “You’re not serious –”

“It just sort of… happened.” Jared shook his head, not wanting to go too deep into it. “I’ll – I’ll explain when we’re out of this rain. Hell, it’d be nice to talk to someone about it.”

“I thought you and – what’s his name, Jensen?”

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t you two best friends, you said?”

Jared sighed. “Yeah. He’s engaged to another actress. Not a demon,” he added with a faint smile. “She’s not on Supernatural. Name’s Danneel.”

Dean snorted. “Then there’s nothing between you and Jensen? The way you were talking about him…”

Jared flinched; he’d let his guard down, not realizing that Dean would be able to read him as easily as he was scripted to read Sam. “Uh. I guess –”

“It’s cool. Who _wouldn’t_ want me?” he asked, flashing that winning smirk. “But, uh, you do know that Sammy’s my little brother, right? That makes it all kinds of fucked up.”

Fortunately, the rain hid any blush. “Yeah, but Jensen Ackles _isn’t_ my brother,” he teased right back. “And neither are you.”

Dean’s green eyes snapped to him, going just a little wide. “Huh,” he finally said, and dropped the subject abruptly, focusing back on the hunt.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 12:00 p.m. EDT | 9:00 a.m. PDT_

An hour and a half later, Jared had forgotten about anything but the hunt, falling into the role of Sam Winchester like a second skin. The cold was gone, driven from his mind the way it was during filming, when they were stuck in Vancouver in their thermal underwear hidden under layers of too-light clothing when they could get away with it. More often than not, wardrobe had them stripped down to T-shirts, jeans, and button downs in fucking February, when their breath still steamed in the below-freezing air, and they had to run to the big space heaters between shots to thaw out their fingers. By comparison, a rainy Pennsylvania winter was almost amateurish.

He’d always liked the challenge of getting into Sam’s head, the difference between that and other roles. He liked the thrill of the weekly monster movie, the character development that went with a long-term role, and replacing the love interest with family – his brother – instead. It was a twist that Jared really appreciated almost as much as he appreciated not having to make out with some new chick every week.

But then Gen had come along, a recurring character thrown in to liven up the plot and add depth, and the way things had progressed had just been natural. Jared had let Gen drive most of their interactions; you couldn’t be gay in Hollywood and get the types of roles he wanted. He was ambitious enough that he wanted to be a success, and that meant conforming to certain expectations – which was just fucking ridiculous, but he didn’t make the rules.

He called or texted Gen faithfully every morning and night. He hadn’t today, for the first time in about forever.

He didn’t feel guilty about it. What the hell did that say about him?

“Dude.” A poke in his shoulder made him blink at Dean, whose green eyes were fixed on him, dark with concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry,” he said, kicking himself mentally for getting distracted. Thinking of Sam naturally made him think of Ruby, and then Gen… “This is all just… complicated.”

“No shit. Listen, you stay out here. Get yourself a good hiding spot and cover the entrance. I’m going in –”

“Not alone,” Jared insisted. “I’m going with you.”

“Dude, you said it yourself. You’re an actor – you’re not a hunter,” Dean said, not accusingly; just in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Yeah, but I’m all you’ve got.”

“Most hunters work alone.”

“Are we gonna stand here and argue or are we going in?”

“I’m not takin’ you in!” Dean protested.

“Then you’re gonna have to tie me to a tree or something, because I’m following you anyway.”

Dean blinked a couple of times. When he laughed, it sent a shiver straight through Jared. “You couldn’t have brought that up in the car, man? I left the rope behind,” he teased in a low voice.

Jared’s mouth went dry.

“Okay, asshole,” Dean said a heartbeat later, slapping his shoulder and turning to the mine entrance. There was a twisted-up chain link fence filling the squat gap in the stone – it looked all of five feet high and two wide, claustrophobic as hell, and the fence had been ripped up at one corner. The dirt underneath was gouged out in a shallow arc. “But stay behind me. And don’t shoot me. Rock salt fuckin’ stings.”

Jared managed a laugh. “Then don’t piss me off, Dean,” he challenged.

Dean’s eyes narrowed as he hit Jared with that devastating smirk. “It is _so_ on,” he threatened cryptically, opening his jacket enough to get at the knife in the leather pouch. He offered it to Jared, saying, “Rock salt won’t do shit against this mother. Can you use this?”

“Well enough,” Jared figured, taking the pouch. He tucked it into an outside pocket where he could get at the knife smoothly.

“Okay. Just watch yourself. You don’t get to die until I’m through with you,” Dean threatened, shoving his shotgun onto his back before dropping to all fours, then down to his belly. He slithered forward dexterously, pulling himself through the mud under the fence.

Heart pounding, Jared followed, gritting his teeth as the icy mud squelched into his shirt and the front of his jeans, tugging free when the chain link fence caught on his hair. Stupid fucking haircut – or lack of one; why the hell wouldn’t Sam Winchester cut his hair? That had never made sense to him, but the fans expected it. Symmetry or something, to balance out Dean’s almost-military short haircut.

He got through the fence and up to all fours, wiping at his face with one sleeve. Dean extended an arm to help him up, grinning, and put a finger across his lips for silence. A moment later, a hellish red light illuminated the mine tunnel, coming from the flashlight Dean held parallel with the semi-automatic in his other hand. _Red, for night vision,_ Jared realized; it was one more thing the show didn’t get quite right.

Judged against all the other stupid things Jared had done in his life (a list in which, unfortunately, Hollywood parties figured prominently), this was probably number two, right behind his relationship with Gen. Not that she wasn’t nice – she was; he was just using her, and felt guilty for it –

Before he could let himself think about it anymore, he dragged his mind back to what he was doing, telling himself to focus on picking up his cues from Dean. He had no script – this was improv, with the ultimate price for failure, judging by the very real blood that had already spilled. And it wasn’t just their lives on the line, if this Jersey devil got loose in a campsite full of kids.

At that thought, it was surprisingly easy for him to find his center and slip back into his role. He studied Dean minutely, moving as he did, subtly changing the way he moved as ‘Sam Winchester’ in ways that helped him balance and move more silently. Dean was all deadly focus and determination, advancing into the cramped confines of a mine, knowing monsters waited somewhere below – and going in anyway.

This was definitely taking the number two spot on the ‘stupid Jared tricks’ list – and it was something he’d do again in a heartbeat.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 12:10 p.m. EDT | 9:10 a.m. PDT_

When they came to a T-intersection, Dean paused, kneeling down to examine the ground. He tapped Jensen’s calf, drawing his attention to a series of parallel lines gouged into the rough-chipped stone wall. Jensen fit his fingers to the lines and nodded; they were a match to the marks in the tree.

This time, Dean’s smile was feral, not sensual and challenging. He stood back up as best he could with the low ceiling and moved in the direction of the gouges. Jared followed, looking over his shoulder as best he could in the darkness, wishing he had a flashlight of his own.

A dozen steps brought them to a curve in the passage too sharp to see past. Dean looked at Jared in a way that was probably supposed to communicate something meaningful, but he had no idea exactly what. He just nodded and stayed back, figuring if he didn't know how to help, he at least knew how not to get in the way.

Whether or not that was what Dean wanted, it seemed to satisfy him. He took a deep breath, let half of it out, and spun around the corner, flashlight held tight against his pearl-handled .45, both aimed forward –

The gunshot was deafeningly loud in the close confines of the narrow, old mine. Over the high-pitched screech, Jared heard Dean yell, “Shit! Two of 'em!” and he firing another shot that sounded like it _pinged_ off the cave wall.

 

Painfully aware that his only weapon was an obsidian knife, Jared moved next to Dean in time to nearly get run down. He caught mad glimpses in the blood-red gleam of the flashlight, pale skin stretched too taut over elongated, deformed bones; dark shadows of wings, tattered and smoky, scraping the low ceiling; a too-long neck stretched, angling a mouth with too many teeth right at Dean, as long, skeletal limbs clawed at the shotgun.

Jared slashed and scored a hit, but he had no time to figure out if it accomplished anything. The shotgun went off again and he hoped like fuck that Dean had intentionally fired it, because the second one slammed into Jared at that moment with stunning force.

He kept hold of the knife – later, that's what he would remember: _he didn't drop the weapon._ It didn't do a damned bit of good, the way his head cracked into the wall, dazing him too badly for him to be able to aim, but it counted for something.

Hot breath reeking of roadkill and rot blasted in his face as the thing shrieked right at him. “Fuck!” he cursed, vaguely remembering a pissed-off letter from a fan saying that their directors didn't know shit about knife-fighting, and that knives should be held low and angled into the gut, not stabbed down dramatically.

At that moment, he prayed the psychotic fan was right.

He dropped the knife low and stabbed up, throwing his other arm in front of his face as a shield. Teeth scraped into his flesh; thankfully they were blunt, or at least blunt enough that they didn't shred his arm. They didn't get a good grip, either – the knife saw to that, sinking all the way up to his fingers, since there wasn't really a guard between the sharp-knapped edges and the hilt wrapped in Jared's fist –

The third shotgun blast was as worse than the first two put together. Fire exploded right in front of Jared's face as the Jersey devil's head turned to a stinking red mist before his eyes. The body collapsed, leaving Dean holding his pistol in one rock-steady hand, half-illuminated by the reflected red light from the fallen flashlight.

“You okay?” Dean asked, his voice rough but exhilarated.

Jared had to take a couple of deep breaths, feeling a slow grin cross his face. “Fuck. Yeah, I'm fine,” he said, starting to laugh.

To his surprise, Dean laughed right along with him. “Come on, man. We gotta finish the sweep.”

“Sweep?”

“Check for more,” Dean said, retrieving the flashlight. He stuck it in his pocket, plunging them both into darkness, and Jared heard him break open the shotgun, loading more shells. “Good work distracting that second one.”

As if it had been intentional and not instinct, Jared coolly said, “No problem.”

Dean just laughed again.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 12:15 p.m. EDT | 9:15 a.m. PDT_  
“I’m _fine_ , Dean, really,” Jared insisted wearily, pushing Dean away. “Even this is overkill.”

“Shut up, bitch,” Dean said automatically, pushing right back so he could fix another butterfly bandage over the gash across Jared’s forearm. “If you hadn’t thrown yourself in the way, you wouldn’t be bleeding now, idiot.”

“And you’d probably be dinner for those bastards.”

Dean’s hand tightened around Jared’s arm. “Yeah. Thanks,” he said more gently, then looked up and met Jared’s gaze. “Still a fuckin’ idiot.”

Jared grinned fiercely, still caught up in the adrenaline high. “All those bones. I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, looking back at the cave. “Wish we could collapse the entrance so no one gets in there. Hell, wish we could salt and burn ‘em, though it’d be a bitch building a hot enough fire without any accelerant.”

“It’d keep us warm.”

Dean looked at Jared questioningly.

Jared shrugged.

“I figured you’d be rushing to get back,” Dean admitted.

Jared grimaced and shrugged, looking away from those vibrant green eyes. “Not really.”

Dean was surprisingly silent for a long couple of minutes. “Okay,” he finally said. “You stay out here. Gather whatever dry wood you can find. I’ll start bringing out the bones.”

“You sure you’ll be safe in there?”

“Nothing’s safe in this world, Jared.”

Jared looked back into Dean’s eyes, seeing the weariness there, but also the satisfaction and bone-deep resolve that kept him in this lifestyle. “Yeah,” he agreed softly. “But it’s a little safer now, right?”

Dean’s smile was answer enough.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 12:30 p.m. EDT | 9:30 a.m. PDT_

“We could use some of those damned Boy Scouts right about now,” Dean complained, holding his lighter uselessly to the smallest branches at the bottom of the pyre. He finally gave up, flicking it closed, holding it gingerly between two fingers as if it had heated up. “New plan. We build a fire in there –” He pointed back toward the cave. “– and we carry lit branches out here when they’re actually going.

“Use the support beams in there for dry wood?” Jared asked, blowing on his hands to try and warm them up.

“Yeah. Carefully. Last thing we need is to get buried in there.” Dean looked at him a little worriedly. “If you –”

“I’m coming in with you.”

“Figures,” Dean laughed, not even arguing this time.

They rushed back into the cave, even though it meant another trip through the mud puddle. Jared, at least, felt a little better getting out of the rain; he let out a little snicker at that thought.

“Something funny?” Dean asked, switching his lighter out for his flashlight.

“I’m soaked through, covered with mud, bleeding, and – and I’m not complaining,” Jared said, chuckling. “I’m just happy we’re out of the rain.”

Dean gave him a strange look, then flashed that heart-stopping grin. “It’s the little things that count, man. Doesn’t take money or fame to make a person happy, you know.”

Jared couldn’t help but laugh at that – a real, full-throated laugh that had him in tears, crouching down to lean against the mine wall to catch his breath. Dean was _so fucking right_ , and it was absolutely ridiculous. He had everything he thought he wanted – success, money, someone who loved him, a best friend he’d die for – and he’d trade all of it for… for this. Some fucked-up can’t-be-reality where monsters roamed the earth and a demon was trying to launch World War Fucking Last and Dean Winchester was real and no one gave a rat’s ass who or what Jared Padalecki was. A world where his life actually _meant something_.

“Fuck,” Dean said, the soft, broken word cutting through Jared’s humor. He turned away, playing the flashlight beam over the walls by the entrance, picking out the old wooden supports.

Blinking and wiping his face with a muddy hand, Jared walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Dean?”

The hunter gave a little shake, his muscles tightening under Jared’s touch. “I, ah… I just haven’t heard that laugh – Shit, not since Sammy was at Stanford.”

Jared’s heart wrenched at the harsh tone Dean was using; he heard the raw pain underneath only because he knew Jensen so well. He’d heard it before, late at night, after the tequila was gone and he and Jensen were ripping open old wounds.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” Jared said, not quite sure what he was apologizing for.

Dean shook his head again, like a horse shaking off a fly, but didn’t pull away from his hand. “Hey. Don’t apologize for laughing. Can’t figure out _why_ you’re laughing, all things considered, but…” He shrugged, glancing back with a half-smile.

“Everything I do…” Jared let out a regretful little laugh, finally letting go of Dean’s shoulder to push the wet hair back from his eyes again. “It’s – God, it’s so _pointless_ , when you do it for real. You actually – It’s all real, isn’t it? Lilith, the apocalypse, all of it?”

Dean snorted grimly. “Yeah. Monsters, demons, Cas. All real. All proof the world’s more fucked up than anyone ever realized.”

“Did you –” He crouched down against the wall again so he could ease the strain on his back, wondering just how much of the scripted shows Dean had actually _lived_ (not to mention how the hell that sort of thing was even possible). “Gordon Walker…”

He saw Dean tense, able to read his body language with surprising ease. “Fucker.”

“What… what you said to him, about ‘embracing the life’… Is that true?”

“Damn,” Dean breathed, lowering himself to the opposite wall, off to one side, their legs touching in the narrow passageway. “You _know_ that?”

Jared relaxed his guard a little and shrugged sheepishly. “Three and a half years, man. I read all the scripts. I don’t – I don’t know how much of it matches – well, reality, if that’s what all this is, but I’m guessing more than I thought.”

“This is really fucked up. Epic level fucked up.”

“I’m serious, though,” Jared pressed, a little carefully, wary of Dean’s temper. “Would you do anything else? Would you give it all up for a normal life?”

“Fuck, no,” Dean said at once.

“Even after – I mean… were you really in…”

“Hell?” Dean had the same nervous tics as the way Jensen played him, rubbing at the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact for just an instant before coming back with false bravado. “Yeah. I was.”

“And… you were really that pissed at Sam, when you thought he’d made a deal to bring you back?”

Dean closed his eyes. “Fucking Sammy… Yeah. It’s just one more thing on the list of stupid shit Winchesters do for each other. Dad went to Hell for me, I went to Hell for Sam… guess he was jealous not to be in the club.”

“I’m sorry. You must be freaking out, not knowing where he is now,” Jared said gently.

Dean shrugged tensely. “I figure if he’s switched places with you, he’s a hell of a lot better off. Even if he’s probably wearing makeup,” he added with a smirk. “Which he’s never fuckin’ gonna live down, I tell you.”

Jared snickered softly. “It’s weird, though, thinking of him talking with Jensen and the others. God, Genevieve…”

“Jealous?” Dean teased.

“No.”

That got him a questioning look.

Guiltily, Jared shrugged, shoving his hands into his wet, muddy pockets, looking down at the mine floor. “Genevieve’s nice. Good friend. I figure we’ll be married, first half of next year probably.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled, man.”

Jared shook his head, knowing he was scowling – pouting, the director would call it; bitchface, his fans called it – but not quite able to stop himself. “She’s nice,” he repeated firmly.

“If you tell anyone we’re having this conversation, I’ll shoot you,” Dean said, his voice still calm and friendly. “You’re not in love with her, are you?”

Jared couldn’t help but snort humorlessly. “No. Like I said, she’s nice. Our publicists about went through the roof when we told them. We hit the magazines and talk shows like a storm for a while with the whole ‘will they, won’t they?’ thing. Eric was thrilled at the publicity, too. Sam the hunter and Ruby the demon, together for real.”

“Do you know how many times I could’ve fucking killed Sammy for that? I still – God, he’s – You don’t get how _bad_ it is, do you?”

“I’ve, uh… looked ahead at some of the scripts. Eric keeps them under close guard, but from what I’ve seen, it only gets worse.”

“Fuck,” Dean muttered. “When Castiel’s back, I’m going to pull out his fucking feathers if he doesn’t tell me if your crew’s writing the scripts based on our lives, or if we’re living through your fucking scripts.”

Jared smirked. “No idea. But I wouldn’t fuck with Castiel _or_ Misha. He’s got a whole crew of followers. ‘Minions’, they call themselves. Says they’re trying to take over the world on his behalf.”

“You serious?”

“It’s those blue eyes of his. And the way he plays Cas – Hell, I don’t have to tell you.” Jared shrugged again. “Promise not to shoot me if I say something honest?”

Dean’s brows shot up. “Fuck, no,” he said, grin flashing.

Jared couldn’t help but smile in return. “I think your brother’s crazy.”

“No shit.”

“I’m serious, Dean. This – what you two do… it’s _amazing_.”

“You think I _want_ this for Sammy? It’s just the only way I know to keep him safe!”

“But it means so much more than that. Dean, you help people in a way that so few others can. You sacrifice everything to make the world a little safer, and you do it without reward or recognition. And I fucking get photographers stalking me to take pictures of me picking up dog shit because I’m famous,” he snapped bitterly.

“You picked that life, though. Didn’t you?”

Jared sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. “Yeah. Maybe Sam’s not the only crazy one.” He shook his head and said, “Fuck it. Maybe when I get back, I’ll quit.”

“Quit?”

“Go do something meaningful. I don’t know – join the fucking Peace Corps. Hell, maybe I could hunt.”

“Jared,” Dean said, his tone heavy with concern. “Man, you don’t just get a gun and hit the road. Even my dad, who was a Marine, damn near died a hundred times while Sammy and I were still kids. This is _dangerous_.”

“I don’t care about the danger,” Jared snapped. “I just want something _else_. I have for a long time. Hell, I was thinking of quitting acting when I read for the part of Sam Winchester. I wasn’t even excited when I got it, until I met Jensen…”

Dean let out a soft breath into the silence that followed. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” he asked softly.

Jared flinched. “Shit.”

His eyes were still closed, so he didn’t realize Dean had moved until he felt the hunter’s leg press against his thigh. One cold, dirty hand touched his face, thumb skating over his cheekbone. “Don’t know if I want to tell you we’ll figure something out or that this is all fucked up,” Dean admitted, his low voice rough and thick.

Jared opened his eyes and saw mostly shadow. The flashlight was on the mine floor, pointing off towards the dark depths. He could barely see the glitter of Dean’s eyes, whites bright against the mud and dirt on his face. “Dean…”

“I’m not your best friend,” Dean said, but softly, not accusingly. “And you’re not my brother.”

“I –” Jared began, before Dean leaned in, slanting his lips over Jared’s, silencing his words in a rush of heat. For one shocked moment, Jared just sat there like an idiot as Dean’s tongue teased his lips apart.

The hunter’s kiss hit him like a storm, searing through his body like Gen’s kisses never had. He gasped and slid his tongue over Dean’s, hearing an almost feline purr of satisfaction in his soft exhale. There was nothing delicate or tentative about the kiss, something Jared missed desperately from his one and only time with a man, a half-drunk experiment in his last year of high school. He got one hand up and cupped the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him closer, exploring Dean’s mouth. Dean pressed in, breath fast and hot against Jared’s skin, hand sliding into Jared’s hair to tug at the strands.

Dean finally broke the kiss with a sharp bite on Jared’s lip that made him gasp in shock. “Fuck,” the hunter breathed, looking right into Jared’s eyes from an inch away.

Jared struggled to find his equilibrium, but just as he thought he might remember how to speak, Dean grinned and kissed him again – this time, a swift press of lips, a swipe of the tongue –

And then he was gone, reaching for the flashlight. Jared couldn’t stop his faint sound of protest, which drew a wicked little chuckle from the hunter. “Dude. We reek like Jersey devil entrails, we’re covered in mud, and we’re going to end up dead from exposure sometime in the next couple of hours if we don’t torch the human remains outside this mine and get the fuck out.”

Jared laughed and got up to his feet, bowed over by the low cave ceiling, hearing only one word under Dean’s little speech: _Later_


	4. Chapter 4

_Friday, 4:30 p.m. EDT | 1:30 p.m. PDT_

Sam watched, more than a little awed, as Jensen and Misha _became_ Dean and Castiel. It was surreal, watching them fall into their own private world, eyes locked, voices too low for Sam to hear from where he sat under an umbrella behind the crew. He rubbed at his arms, still shivering – not from the cold, but from the _script_.

God, he needed to get to Dean _right the fuck now_ , if there was any chance – any at all – that this seal could possibly be authentic. They could stop it, save Pamela's life, save the seal...

Of course, he was still recovering from seeing Alistair – or his latest body, at least – walk up to Jensen before filming, shake his hand and laugh, and calmly take his place under the street lamp.

“You really are dedicated, huh?”

The soft voice caught him by surprise. He looked over and saw the reaper, Tessa – _Lindsey_ , he corrected himself. “Feels like I've been watching those two all my life,” he admitted.

She laughed and looked toward the set with a little sigh. “The chemistry they have – and you two,” she added, flashing her dimples at him. “Anyway, I wanted to say thanks. It was good to work with you. I hope I can make it back,” she said, holding out her hand.

He got to his feet and took her hand, then grinned and gave her a hug, feeling _good_ about everything. He'd actually done well at acting, once Jensen had given him a quick crash course on finding his marks and how everything was supposed to go. All those years of hastily memorizing Latin rituals had come in handy, apparently.

“You too, Lindsey. Thanks for everything,” he said warmly.

She let out a delighted little laugh and kissed his cheek. “If you ever get around to the afterlife, look me up,” she said with a wink, heading off to say her good-byes to one of the other people standing around (whose job he still hadn't quite figured out).

A feeling of contentment spread through him as he sat back down, picking up his script to catch up on the story, keeping one eye on Jensen and Misha. God, it was strange to watch them – well, Dean and Cas, anyway – and see that crackle of energy between them, but know it was all fake. He couldn't help but feel awed that they could sustain it.

As soon as the delighted director called out things like “Wrap!” and “Print!” Jensen and Misha rushed over. They hustled Jared out of his chair and away from the crew, into one of the golf carts. Jensen turned the key and got it moving while someone shouted at them to wait.

“Grand theft golf cart isn't very glamorous,” Misha told him, earning a raised middle finger. Loftily ignoring it, Misha twisted and looked at Jared, saying, “You did _really_ well. Are you sure you're not actually Jared?”

“Are you sure you're not Cas? Because... God, the two of you...” He laughed.

Jensen's head came up and caught Sam’s eye in the rearview mirror. “What's that mean?”

Maybe it was the exhilaration of the morning, or maybe just the fact that Misha couldn't smite anyone (at least, not as far as Jared knew); he spoke honestly, saying, “You've just always had this... _thing_ between you two, like you're going to fly off to some remote mountain top and screw each others' brains out.”

Misha crowed with laughter and slid across the bench to plant a loud, wet kiss on Jensen's cheek. “We've been discovered, my love.”

Scowling darkly, Jensen asked, “Sam. You got a gun?”

“No.”

“Good. Cause I'm gonna kill you when we get to your trailer,” he threatened.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 5:30 p.m. EDT | 2:30 p.m. PDT_

An hour later, they were changed back into street clothes, yawning their way into an SUV driven by a huge bear of a man who Jensen whispered was named 'Clif-with-one-f'. Ominously, he reminded Sam of an inmate who'd died at a prison job he and Dean had once worked; he chose not to mention that.

When his phone rang, he went to pull it from his pocket automatically, only to find Misha lunging over Jensen to claw at Sam in a way that was one layer of fabric short of molestation. The thought of _Castiel_ doing that was just enough shock that Misha triumphed, wrenching the phone out of his pocket. He took a quick look and snapped it open, saying, “Gen, darling.”

Snapping out of his half-doze between them, Jensen looked from Misha to Sam and back.

Misha shook his head, saying into the phone, “He's ours for the night. Well, no – oh, you're welcome to join us, but you'd have to fly – So soon?” he said, shooting a startled look at Jensen. “That's... great. Well, no, of course I'm not happy. I had plans for him. Jenny and I were going to take him to a BDSM club and indoctrinate him into the lifestyle. Of course Vicky knows. No, he can't – we have him tied up right now. Practice makes perfect and all. Sorry, love. He'll call you later.” He disconnected the call and turned off the phone, leaning back against the headrest with a relieved sigh.

Jared looked from Misha to Jensen, but Jensen just shook his head, green eyes troubled. He put a hand briefly on Sam’s arm as he leaned back again, eyes closing.

 _Castiel, I don't know if you can hear me, but... I could really use some advice,_ Sam prayed silently, leaning against the SUV window. Because God help him, he'd actually had a pretty damn incredible day. He _liked_ the people he'd met – people 'he' had been working with for four years, that is. He liked the challenge of delivering his lines believably, that special energy when a scene came together... He'd teared up a couple of times, letting himself believe he was really with Dean, but even that was ok.

“Clif, I'm staying with the boys tonight,” Misha announced when they turned onto a major road.

“What?” Jensen protested. Sam leaned over in time to see Misha shoot Jensen an intense Castiel-type stare. Jensen grumbled, “Don’t make me kill you, Mish. The writers will be pissed.”

“My minions will avenge me.”

Grinning even though he didn’t get the references, Sam leaned back again, amazed at the comfortable, _human_ dynamic between the two. He loved Dean more than anything in the world – Dean would always come first in his life – but his older brother could be a real asshole most of the time, all hard edges and shallow self-indulgence. And Castiel… there was no way in hell any human could consider an angel as a _friend_. Castiel was just too alien.

But these two were… real. Easygoing. Reachable.

Normal.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 4:30 p.m. EDT | 1:30 p.m. PDT_

“You know, burning bones looks a hell of a lot easier on TV,” Jared laughed, speaking loud enough to be heard over the music.

Dean flashed him a grin, smug and satisfied, though with a tight edge to it that Jared recognized. Jensen was the same way; you couldn’t tell what he was really thinking, when he was acting, unless you knew him as well as you knew yourself – and Jared did.

Of course, Dean was worried about Sam – and about Castiel, judging by how Dean’s eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror. Castiel had abandoned his body in the back seat, sitting upright, eyes closed, looking for all the world like a corpse, except for the occasional shallow breaths, about once every five minutes.

“It’s early, but we’ll find a motel, hole up for a while,” Dean told him, eyes switching to the rearview mirror. “We’ll – _fucking hell!_ ” he gasped, jerking the steering wheel an inch, making the car swerve. “Cas!”

Jared twisted and saw Castiel’s bright blue eyes fixed on Dean.

“Hello, Dean. Jared.”

“Uh,” was all Jared managed to get out, _positive_ that the show’s writers didn’t know shit about the etiquette of talking to an angel.

“You okay? What’d you learn?” Dean demanded.

“Sam is safe.”

Dean exhaled, hands flexing on the steering wheel. “Okay. So, what the fuck is going on, Cas?”

“It’s an Enochian spell. It’s designed to… ensure that God’s true will is done.”

Jared glanced back at the angel, wondering if that faint hesitation meant anything. If he’d been Misha (and God, it was hard to think of him in any other way), it would’ve meant he was trying to avoid ‘full disclosure’, as he liked to say.

“God’s will? What the fuck, man?”

Castiel looked out the window, then back to the rearview mirror, waiting until Dean glanced up from the road again. “It loosely translates to ‘As it should be, for the good of all of Father's creations’.”

Dean blinked, eyes raising to meet Castiel’s. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It’s the reason Jared is here, and Sam is there.”

“What? Why?” Jared asked, startled.

“Because biologically, you are _not_ Sam Winchester,” Castiel explained calmly, turning to face him. “You were never tainted by Azazel’s blood. And there are… other, more important differences.”

“What differences?” Dean asked sharply.

Castiel looked away and Jared felt his gut flip. The directors usually had him do that when he had bad news and didn’t want to admit to it.

“Cas,” Dean growled.

The angel’s blue eyes closed for a moment, then opened, turning back to fix on Dean. “For an angel to manifest on Earth, we require a vessel,” he said, looking down at his body for a moment. “When the last seal breaks, Lucifer will walk free. Lucifer is an archangel, Dean.”

“He requires a vessel,” Jared guessed, catching the faintest glimpse of what Eric Kripke had called his five-year master plot.

“Yes.”

“Oh, fuck no,” Dean said harshly. “For the good of… You mean, Sammy –”

“Yes.” Castiel bowed his head for a moment.

“But – not me?” Jared asked, not quite able to suppress a selfish moment of panic.

“No. An angel’s vessel is determined in part by bloodline. If Sam Winchester is not here, Lucifer has no true vessel.”

“Fuck,” Dean grated, closing his eyes. “Cas –”

“Dean… This – It’s not part of any prophecy I’ve ever heard,” Castiel said, his low voice anxious. “It’s not _Heaven’s_ plan, but… it may be _God’s_ plan. I can’t reconcile it.”

“So… so what now?” Dean interrupted tightly. “You switch Jared back for Sam, and… what? If we don’t stop Lilith, Sam’s fucked, Cas!”

“I know.”

“Then _do_ something!”

The angel fell silent, turning again to look out the window, watching the rain. “I will tell no one about this,” he finally said. “This isn’t Heaven’s plan. They may attempt to take action.”

“Isn’t –” Jared cut himself off.

Castiel turned to face him and nodded gravely. “But in this case, rebellion against Heaven may not be rebellion against God,” he said softly, and vanished in a soft thunder of wings.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 5:15 p.m. EDT | 2:15 p.m. PDT_

Sam made it one step into the house before two immense brown dogs rushed him. One licked at his hands, jumping an inch into the air, bouncing in excitement as if it were just waiting for permission to jump higher. The other sniffed and whined, dancing back and forth, tail wagging furiously.

“Hi, babies,” he cooed, crouching down to get to their level. The enthusiastic dog was all over him, licking his face, trying to climb up onto his lap, which would've worked better if he'd been about a quarter the size. The other dog whined even more, spun in a circle, and ran to Jensen.

“Damn,” Jensen muttered, standing at the end of the hallway with a third dog – a small white mop – under his arm. “Sadie knows.”

“And Harley doesn't,” Misha said dryly, closing the door. “Why didn't you mention that Gen's coming out next week?”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Jensen said.

Sam looked up sharply, holding down the huge dog's head so he could speak without risking a mouth full of dog tongue. “Gen? As in –”

“Your girlfriend,” Misha agreed.

“Fuck!” Jensen muttered, putting down the little dog.

Misha let out a sigh and said, “If you insist.” He unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his jeans.

“Whip it out and I cut it off,” Jensen threatened. “Can we deal with the girlfriend problem, please?”

“I thought I handled it rather well,” Misha defended himself, calmly buttoning his jeans again. He pulled the belt off and started rolling it around the buckle, saying, “We have two days to figure out what to do. So...” He turned to Sam and said, “If you're done with the experiment in bestiality, maybe we should get down to business?”

A little startled, Sam gave the big dog – Harley – one last hug and got to his feet. “Business?”

“Assuming the scripts are correct, you're the only one of the three of us that's ever even _seen_ a spell, much less worked one. I'm not counting Tibet,” he added, glancing at Jensen.

“Tibet?” Sam asked curiously.

“I might have seen a ghost once,” Misha said, “but I’d been awake and fasting for three days straight. I spent a year at a retreat in there.”

“Right,” Jensen said unhappily. “You two... do something.”

“What are you going to do?” Sam asked, a little worried. When Dean got that kind of expression, it meant he was going to get drunk, find something to kill, get laid, or all three – in any order.

“Get drunk,” he announced as he turned into a side room.

“At least it's not the other two,” Sam muttered, looking down at the still-overjoyed dog trying not to jump up on him.

“Excuse me?” Misha asked politely, shoving his coiled-up belt into the pocket of his jacket.

Sam shook his head. “Nothing. Would you mind showing me around? I'm kinda lost here.”

Misha gave Sam a sly little smirk. “Bedroom first?”

Sam couldn't help but laugh, warming to the man in a way that never quite happened with the enigmatic angel. “You’re really married?”

Misha’s smile changed to one of genuine happiness. “Vicky. If there’s an angel here, it’d be her, for putting up with me.”

“I can see that,” Sam laughed, following Misha up a flight of stairs. Harley shoved between them, managing to try to trip them both at the same time. The other big dog, Sadie, hung back, still whining.

At the top of the stairs, Misha started throwing open doors. “Guest bath. Guest bedroom. Jared's room – yours, I suppose. Jensen's is at the end of the hall.”

Sam looked into his bedroom and couldn't quite hide his appreciative gasp. It wasn't that it was luxurious so much as... “God, it's been four years since I've slept somewhere that wasn't a motel room, Bobby's place, the Impala, or a hospital.”

Misha gave Sam a gentle little push, saying gently, “This is especially disorienting for Jensen. I can't imagine how you feel, but... he's lost his best friend.”

Guilt made Sam squirm; he hadn't really thought of it from that point of view. “I didn't do this on purpose. I still don't even know what happened.”

“I know. And he knows, too. Did you want to change or anything? What do you need?”

“Huh?”

“A spell. Ritual. Summoning. How can we get some answers?” Misha asked, walking past Sam to start searching through the chest of drawers opposite the king-size bed.

Sam followed, wishing he had Dean, or that he could call Bobby, or that Castiel had answered his prayer. He sank down on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, thinking back to when he’d thought Dean had died and been forced to live on in manufactured solitude, thanks to the Trickster... Harley jumped on the bed next to him and tried to climb into his lap. He scooted back and let the dog take over; his legs started going numb almost immediately, but that was okay. “I've always wanted a dog,” Sam admitted wistfully. “I had one for a couple of weeks one time when I ran away. Dunno what ever happened to him.”

“Well, for the time being, you have two. Try being nice to poor Sadie here. She's understandably confused.”

Holding out his hand, Sam called, “Sadie, c'mere, girl. Come on, Sadie.” When she crept toward him, still whining, he encouraged, “That's a good girl. C'mon, Sadie. Here, baby.”

He felt a little thrill of accomplishment when she sniffed and licked his hand, then moved closer so he could scratch the side of her jaw. Misha looked back and smiled approvingly, his sharp blue eyes warm. “See? You're fitting in already – although why you'd want to...”

“Huh?”

“Jared has got the most _boring_ taste in underwear I've ever seen,” he announced, shoving the top drawer closed. “And that's all that's in there. Plain men's underwear – white, grey, blue, black. No porn, no drugs, no nude shots of Gen – or Jensen, for that matter.”

“Are you _sure_ you're married?”

“That doesn't mean I can't make life interesting for you two,” Misha declared solemnly, not looking up from ransacking the drawers.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 7:00 p.m. EDT | 4:00 p.m. PDT_

The hunter got out, leaving the engine running, and went to the lobby, all without saying anything. He came back a few minutes later and drove them around the motel, parking in front of room 121.

“Your – Sam’s bag is in back,” Dean said, his voice harsh in the silence after he turned off the engine. He bent and picked up both shotguns and the duffel bag.

Jared nodded guiltily, as if this was all his fault, even though he knew it was absurd. He retrieved Sam’s bag, shut the door, and followed Dean into the room a little warily, uncertain of both the hunter's mood and the reception he'd get.

Thankfully, it wasn’t quite as cheesy as the rooms the set designers usually put together. There was a bathroom to the right of the entrance, two queen size beds, a desk, and an armchair. Everything was decorated in outdated shades of brown and rust orange.

“Go shower,” Dean told him after dropping his bags at the foot of the bed closest to the door.

“You’re hurt worse –”

“Go,” Dean snapped, and walked back out.

With another guilty sigh, Jared carried the backpack into the bathroom, kicked the door closed, and turned on the hot water. He showered quickly, trying not to think about much of anything – which, of course, meant that he failed. He missed his home, his dogs, his family – God, he missed Jensen. Damn Dean for being _right_ about his feelings.

He finally managed to think instead about the morning. He still could barely believe it was even real, but… just, _wow_. He’d helped find a damned _monster_ – a real one, not some CGI animation or stunt man in prosthetics. He’d done something that actually changed the world, for the better. Something meaningful.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 7:30 p.m. EDT | 4:30 p.m. PDT_

“Jensen?” Sam knocked tentatively on the open door to the den, where Jensen was sitting in the dark, illuminated only by a video game. A glance at the TV showed waves of zombies staggering forward; Jensen was blowing them away with unerring precision, fingers flying over the controller.

After the last zombie exploded, Jensen threw the controller down beside a glass and a partially-empty bottle. “Yeah?”

“I, uh, have a spell that I think will work. I need to paint the summoning circle on a floor, though.”

“Garage.”

Sam hesitated, seeing so much of his brother's stubbornness in Jensen, but less of the cocky attitude. Despite the obvious lack of invitation, he walked in, saying, “I'm sorry.”

Jensen's green eyes closed as he sighed. He picked up his glass and took a sip, rather than gulping it down the way Dean would have. “Not your fault, right?” he asked sharply.

A curl of anger threaded through his compassion. “You lost your best friend. I lost my _brother_ , Jensen.”

The other man's head snapped around; Sam saw the matching flash of anger and braced himself for a punch that never came. Apparently, Jensen had learned self-restraint. “Yeah.” He let out a deep sigh and finished the drink, thumping the empty glass on the coffee table, before he got to his feet. “What's this spell take?”

Relieved that Jensen was willing to help – or at least not hate Sam for his unwilling part in all this – he looked down at his notes for the spell he’d spent the last hour or two trying to remember. “Any kind of chalk or paint, though paint's better. More stable. I need a few candles – if you've got emergency candles, those are better than scented ones. A stake or solid branch. And a knife.”

“A knife?”

“The more powerful spells all take blood,” Sam admitted, seeing Jensen's discomfort with the idea. “This one supposedly takes a hell of a lot, but I'm going to try it with just a little, first.”

“And if that doesn't work?”

Sam shrugged. “I break into a hospital or morgue and steal some.”

That stopped Jensen in his tracks. He stared at Sam for a long, quiet moment, then asked, sympathetically, “Is this really _normal_ for you?”

Sam couldn't hide his flinch. “Nothing's been 'normal' for me for a long time.”

“Fuck,” Jensen muttered, putting his hand on Sam's shoulder. “I'm sorry, man. That's... screwed up.”

“Life as a Winchester,” he sighed.

Jensen squeezed his shoulder before leading Sam down a side hall, to a door. “Garage is here,” he said, opening the door. He reached in and flicked on a light. “There's some paint in there, left over from repairs after a party. If you need to move one of the cars, the keys are in the front hallway.”

“Thanks.”

“I'll get you that knife. Where's Misha?”

“Bathroom. If you see him, could you send him in? He said he'd help.”

Jensen nodded, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “Is there anything I can help with?”

Sam smiled, relieved. “Yeah. If you don't mind.”

“No. It's okay,” Jensen said, giving him another pat on the shoulder before he turned away. “Like you said, not your fault.”

* * * * *

 _Friday, 7:30 p.m. EDT | 4:30 p.m. PDT_

By the time he finished his shower, he was feeling… if not better, then at least somewhat more balanced. As an actor, Jared had gotten used to wearing clothes that weren’t his own, but wearing someone else’s underwear was almost pushing it. Only the fact that his jeans had soaked through with mud and rain made him even consider it – and the fact that if wearing someone else’s boxers was bad, going naked under someone else’s jeans was worse. He drew the line at using Sam’s toothbrush, though, and instead used some toothpaste and his finger like he’d had to do more than once before getting the hotel to send up a complimentary toiletry kit. This place was a low enough dive that he doubted they’d have such amenities here.

He finally left the bathroom barefoot, wearing borrowed jeans (and underwear) and a T-shirt. He dumped the dirty clothes on the luggage stand by the closet, leaving Sam’s backpack on the floor nearby, and went out into the main part of the room.

Dean was sitting in the chair by the desk, one foot up on the trash can, an open beer in one hand. Two pizza boxes were open at the foot of one bed, next to Castiel.

Castiel. The fucking _angel_.

“Feel better, man?” Dean asked, getting to his feet.

“Much. Thanks.”

“Help yourself,” he invited, gesturing with half a slice at the pizza boxes. “Gimme ten,” he added, heading to the bathroom.

The room felt a lot smaller with just Jared and Castiel, even though Dean’s presence should have overwhelmed the small space. _He’s safe,_ Jared thought with a nervous glance at the angel. It was especially awkward, since Castiel was just staring at him, almost the way he stared at Dean all the time.

Jared got a beer, wondered if he should offer Castiel one, then figured that offering an angel a beer was grounds for going to Hell – and Hell was _real_ , at least here. He settled for taking a seat on the other side of the pizza boxes and helping himself to a slice with pepperoni and sausage.

Finally, when the silence got to be too awkward, Jared said, “Thanks for trying to help us.”

After a long moment, Castiel nodded. “Dean doesn’t take care of himself.” The angel’s eyes dropped, skating over Jared’s body in a quick examination, before he said, “You were also injured.”

“It’s nothing.”

Though Castiel didn’t sigh or say anything, Jared got a sense of exasperation from the angel as he leaned over the pizza boxes to take hold of Jared’s wrist. For one instant, it was like touching a hot stove; before he could cry out or jerk away, though, the heat was gone – along with the stinging cuts and bone-deep bruises.

He looked down at the butterfly bandages still stuck to his forearm, now useless, the gash underneath completely healed. “Thank you,” he said tightly, freaked out all over again, and put the beer down on the floor so he could start peeling the bandages off. “So… what now?”

This time, Castiel did exhale softly and look in the direction of the bathroom, as if he could see Dean right through the walls. “As I have already told Dean, obedience to the will of Heaven demands that I return you and Sam to your rightful places so that Sam may fulfill his destiny.”

“If you were going to do that, you already would have,” Jared guessed.

“Lilith is attempting to break the seals. For every seal we save, four more fall. It’s simply not possible for us to guard them all.”

“Uh, Castiel…” Jared rolled up the butterfly bandages and tossed them in the direction of the waste basket. “How… accurate to reality are the scripts I’ve been seeing?”

Castiel turned back to face him. “As far as I can determine, very, though not all-inclusive.”

 _Fuck._ Jared picked up his beer and took another drink, wishing it was something stronger. Castiel on the show had something of a fiery temper, and the last thing he wanted was to poke the currently-calm angel with a sharp stick, but…

“I’ve only read a couple of scripts ahead, and those were first drafts. Eric… doesn’t like the risk of spoiling future episodes with leaks.”

The angel’s head tilted and his blue eyes seemed to intensify. “What did you read?”

Jared closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “There’s a seal – breaking it requires the death of two reapers. The, uh, demon Alistair kills one reaper, but Dean and Sam stop him from killing the other. Cas- Uh, you capture Alistair.”

Those blue eyes were wide now; the angel nodded. “I know the seal. Continue.”

“Angels have died. Angels from your garrison.”

This time, Castiel flinched as if stung. “Yes. Three so far.”

 _God. It’s really happening._ Jared took another drink and said, “There will be seven. You – you think Alistair can tell you who’s killing the angels. So you ask Dean to torture him.”

Though the angel didn’t move, a sense of danger swept through the room, sending a primitive compulsion through Jared’s brain to make him run and hide. The only thing that kept him paralyzed at the foot of the bed was the thought that if he moved, Castiel might interpret that as an attack and tear him apart.

“I – I would not –” he said, his voice low and rough but filled with such power that the window at the back wall rattled.

“You think it’s… Heaven’s will. Orders. Uh, revelation,” Jared stammered. “Only it’s not – it’s a lie.”

“A lie?”

“Uriel. Uriel’s behind it.”

With no sense of motion at all, the angel was suddenly _there_ , standing in front of Jared. “You accuse Uriel of betraying God’s plan?” he demanded, lifting Jared by the throat.

The beer bottle slipped from nerveless fingers as Jared froze in panic, choking dizzily. He was such an _idiot_ for even bringing it up –

“Cas!” Dean shouted, rushing out into the room sopping wet, buck naked, semi-automatic in one hand.

Jared fell free, gasping, half sliding down the bed to land on one knee. He saw bare wet feet get between him and the angel.

“Cas, what the hell?” Dean demanded.

“I need to find the truth of this,” Castiel said –

And disappeared.


	5. Chapter 5

_Friday, 7:45 p.m. EDT | 4:45 p.m. PDT_

“Fuck!” Dean spat, turning to crouch down beside Jared. “You okay, man?”

Jared nodded, trying not to cough. “Yeah. Fuck, that hurts more than it looks,” he rasped, rubbing gingerly at his throat.

He let Dean half-lift him onto the foot of the bed. The hunter picked up the beer bottle and set it on the desk, asking, “What set him off?”

“I told him what’s in the future draft scripts I saw.” Jared finally gave in to the urge to cough. “It’s… bad.”

“Shit,” Dean muttered, looking down at himself. “Okay, two minutes to get rid of the soap,” he said, clicking the safety back on as he headed back toward the bathroom.

Jared just sat on the edge of the bed, trying to stop his heart from pounding out of his chest. Misha played Cas as having the potential to be terrifying, but the reality… He shivered and tried not to think about it.

Dean finally came back out, towel wrapped around his waist. “He thinks whatever’s in those scripts is real?”

“I guess.” Jared couldn’t help but watch Dean stalk across the room to rifle through the duffel bag on the other bed. Jensen was the pinnacle of fangirl desire, with his perfect body and all, but Dean was _real_. That body hadn’t been sculpted in a gym but out in the field, in life-or-death situations. He was just a bit leaner than Jensen, built for endurance as well as strength. Even the gold amulet he wore was different – the thong was a little more worn, fraying at the knot, and the amulet looked less like a prop and more like some genuine antique. But what captivated his interest the most was the handprint burned onto his left shoulder and the tattoo high on his chest. He’d seen those marks so many times, listened to Jensen complain about how the handprint prosthetic itched like hell…

“You gonna tell?” Dean finally challenged, pulling a pair of jeans out of his bag.

He’d actually planned on keeping his fucking mouth shut, even if it was too late. The last thing he wanted to do was to piss Castiel off even more. But one look into Dean’s green eyes and his resolve scattered. “Uriel’s killing angels.”

“Dickless?” Dean barked with a vicious edge of humor. “Knew I didn’t like that asshole for a reason.” He tugged off his towel and Jared’s thoughts scattered. With easy grace, Dean stepped into the jeans, pulled them up over his hips, and zipped the fly, leaving the button open.

Jared could almost see Dean thinking of what to ask next, but there was no way – absolutely no fucking way – that Jared would even bring up the subject of torture. The writers had struggled with it, even though it was the premise of an entire episode, and Jared knew it was back in rewrite, so maybe, just maybe there was a chance it wouldn’t happen.

But he also knew that he wouldn’t be able to refuse Dean if he asked, so he got up to snag the wet towel and used it to mop up the spilled beer. “I think… No, I _don’t_ think Castiel went to confront him. Probably to watch him – catch him in the act.”

Dean stretched, muscles flexing in his chest as he reached for the other box of pizza, snagging a slice of what looked like ham, ground beef, and bacon. “Cas isn’t exactly subtle. And he’s pretty fucking self-righteous.”

It felt strange, knowing more about Castiel than Dean himself did. Jared sat down and retrieved his own pizza, trying to buy time to think of what to say.

Dean saw right through it, getting up to walk right in front of him. “Let’s hear it.”

Jared was an accomplished actor; he looked up at Dean, giving a little shrug, making a tiny motion with his hand. “Hear what?”

“You’re not my brother, but I’ve lived with those pretty hazel eyes for twenty years. Now talk,” Dean ordered, gesturing with his pizza.

Jared laughed, shaking his head, and tore his gaze away from Dean’s sharp eyes. “Castiel’s… got doubts. The writers were real closed about it all, but he’s not entirely onboard with what Heaven’s doing.”

“Well, good,” Dean said a little uncertainly. “Cause Heaven’s plan is damn near as fucked up as the demons’.”

“Dean,” Jared interrupted, looking back up at him. “Misha’s contract was only for something like five episodes.”

“Misha – the actor who plays Cas.” When Jared nodded, Dean’s eyes narrowed. “And – how many has he been in?”

“Seven. So they’ve obviously modified the contract. But… he’s not supposed to be a recurring character, Dean.”

“Fuck,” Dean whispered, raking his free hand through his hair as his green eyes went hard. “I’m stuck in this Heaven-and-Hell shit, and Cas has been one major fucking dick, but… not like the others.”

Jared nodded. “Yeah. You should’ve seen the fan reaction after – uh, after he brought you back,” he said, realizing Dean probably didn’t need to hear things like episode titles for major events in his life. “There’s this incredible dynamic between Jensen and Misha – there’s a whole group of fangirls that think – you know,” he sort of stammered. “They, uh, write stories about Dean and Castiel.”

“God,” Dean groaned, actually blushing. He turned and sat down on the bed next to Jared, taking a bite of pizza in an automatic sort of way.

“I’m just saying, if – fuck, I don’t know if things happen on the show based on what happens here or vice versa, but the producers aren’t going to let Misha go, with the kind of following he’s bringing to the program.”

Dean let out a faint laugh, shaking his head. “You’re trying to tell me the only angel who’s not a complete dick probably won’t end up dead because a bunch of over-sexed chicks like… what? Writing porn about me and him?”

Jared hesitated, then couldn’t contain his own laugh. He leaned back on the bed, saying, “Yeah. Pretty much, that.”

“God, my life is so fucked up.”

* * * * *

 _Friday, 8:00 p.m. EDT | 5:00 p.m. PDT_

“I'm pretty sure my sister did this at her sleepover parties,” Jensen grumbled, sitting cross-legged on one of the throw pillows Misha had brought in.

Misha laughed, crossing his legs in a half-lotus. He'd changed into sweatpants that were a little too big and a T-shirt, leaving his feet bare. “You don't have enough hair to braid, Jenny.”

“You have to sleep some time, Mish.”

“Good thing I'll have Sam as my bodyguard.”

“Is that your way of volunteering _your_ blood for the ritual?” Sam asked innocently.

Jensen burst out laughing while Misha just blinked his soulful blue eyes, as though wounded. “I thought our relationship was special.”

“Hey, even Tessa pointed out that it's Dean you apparently want to screw,” Sam snickered. “I'm just the sidekick.”

“Sidekick with top billing,” Jensen snorted, flexing his hands, cracking his knuckles. “Let's get to this. What do we do?”

Sam handed them each the notes he'd written on paper he'd found in Jared's bedroom, careful phonetic translations of the basic incantations. “The top one needs to be chanted three times. The bottom, seven. We need to check your pronunciation first, though. Can you guys do every other line first, starting with the odd numbers?”

Misha and Jensen exchanged a look. “Sure,” Misha said, quickly skimming the text, before looking at Jensen.

It was like watching Dean and Cas all over again, their eyes locked intently, before they both inhaled together, and spoke. Sam shivered just a bit at their deep, steady voices; he closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the ritual he'd memorized a year ago and then some – the ritual to summon a trickster. He'd had Bobby's help, or what he'd _thought_ was Bobby, at least at first.

He corrected a couple of words and had them repeat the exercise with the even-numbered lines. It was only prudent to practice a spell this way; otherwise, you could end up actually casting before you were ready. This time, they were dead on, speaking in near-perfect unison.

“Okay,” Sam said, picking up the knife. He'd washed it off in the garage sink earlier, just in case. It was a solid kitchen knife, not a ritual blade, but he'd worked with more makeshift items. _Spongebob altarcloth,_ he thought, feeling a faint smile touch his lips.

He used the barbecue lighter to light the candles placed at six points around the circle and three inside. Then he got up, knees a bit stiff from the cold in the garage, and put the lighter on the workbench before turning out the overhead light. Immediately, the three car garage seemed larger, the darkness beyond the candlelight almost absolute.

Misha and Jensen had put their papers down on the floor, so they could see the writing. Sam nodded to them and they exchanged another look, before speaking together: _“Vee pay rey ah zod, oo mah ah ess, dey dah ree lah pah, zod oo mah bee ah vee noo, noh noo key, dah ess, kah ess, mah ray dee, ah ray, kee kah lay.”_

As they started their second repeat, Sam closed his eyes and recited the invocation. Already the air over the circle seemed different, but that could be because they were in Canada, and it was really, _really_ fucking cold.

He clenched his fists and opened his eyes again, focusing on the candle flame. He spoke the invocation over the third repeat, ending at almost the exact same time as the other two men.

Nothing happened. No candle flare, no crackle of energy. But... okay. He wasn't a psychic. He only caught on to the most obvious spell effects – usually the ones involving him getting flung against a wall, sad to say.

He gestured for them to continue, and they started the first of seven repetitions of the last part. _”Vee pay rey ah zod, oo mah ah ess, zod oh noo go, ah vee noo, noh noo key, soh lay pay tah hay, soh lah tah ray roh.”_

The first part of the spell opened the way. The invocation called the trickster. The seven-part repetition would bind the trickster – both feet, so it couldn't flee; both hands, so it couldn't strike; tongue, so it couldn't speak; both eyes, so it couldn't see; and finally its thoughts. Sam overlaid that with the spell that would force the trickster to actually manifest as a physical entity, rather than a spirit.

He didn't think to count the repetitions for them, but figured that as actors, they could probably keep track of that for themselves. Instead, he concentrated on the spell of manifestation, scraping the point of the knife over the cut he'd already made when he'd anointed the stake – a gardening support, actually – with his own blood.

It was a testament to how fucked up his life was that bloodletting was a familiar act for him. A thick line welled up on his forearm; he put the knife down and smeared his fingers through it, leaning forward to wave his blood-wet fingers through the flames of each of the three middle candles in turn. He cupped his hand under the cut and gathered more blood in his palm, until he had a good-sized puddle in his hand. Then he leaned forward and poured the blood into the circle, drop-by-drop, as the other men finished the seventh repetition.

 _“Me kah mah, go hoo mah dah, zod ee ray, zod ah dah,”_ he chanted, giving a little flick of his wrist to make the last drops fall. “Show yourself, you fucking bastard.”

Misha and Jensen looked startled at that, but Sam was already reaching for the stake –

“Well, well... How primitive.”

Sam's heart skipped. He lunged to his feet, kicking the throw pillow away as he snatched up the stake. “You!” he gasped, recognizing the shadowed, elfin face. “You're _dead_!”

“Richard,” Misha gasped.

“Oh, fuck,” Jensen said.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 8:00 p.m. EDT | 5:00 p.m. PDT_

Dean had a lot of weapons.

 _A lot._

As in, enough to warrant a joint FBI-ATF raid, or at least that’s how it felt, once they were spread out across one of the beds.

Jared had learned how to break down and clean guns, but that had been a lifetime ago. Fortunately, Dean was patient – probably because the alternative was to tend to everything on his own. As it was, it took them a couple of long, rough hours of chemical stink, scraped knuckles, and aching fingers before everything was to Dean’s satisfaction.

The man was a fucking obsessive. Jared would clean a bore until a patch came through it white, only to have Dean shine a bore light through and point out the tiniest specks of residue, making him start all over again.

Once the hunter trusted Jared enough to tend one of the guns, he got started on the knives, which he honed in an almost hypnotic rhythm, metal singing across the stone. It was almost soothing, to Jared's ears. By that point, he couldn't smell the chemicals (and was probably just a little high from the fumes) and his third beer had done wonders to work the tension out of his shoulders.

“Castiel will probably be okay,” Jared finally ventured to say, gathering the last of the used patches into the waste basket.

“Yeah, I know. For a nerdy little shit, he’s one tough son of a bitch,” Dean admitted, hands moving the knife like a dance. His eyes were half-lidded, shoulders relaxed, muscles flexing smoothly. “Thanks for helping with the gear, by the way.”

“Thanks for letting me.”

Dean glanced over at him, the knife still moving, and asked, “You know anything about computers?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, one of us has to get on that thing, and Sammy has this thing about me touching his laptop, so…”

More than a little curious, Jared dropped the waste basket by the bathroom counter, trying to keep the smell away from the sleeping area. “What’d you need?”

“Unless you’re up for a romantic vacation in Shithole, Pennsylvania, it’s probably about time to find the next job.”

Jared’s gut gave a peculiar little flip of excitement and he was grabbing for the laptop bag before he could even say anything about going home, back to Supernatural, back to Genevieve and his dogs and Jensen. He opened his mouth to remind Dean that he’d probably be gone in a couple of hours, maybe a couple of days at most.

What came out instead, over the hypnotic _shnng shnng_ of the knife blade, was, “Where do I start?”

* * * * *

 _Friday, 8:05 p.m. EDT | 5:05 p.m. PDT_

“Really, Sammy, I'm disappointed,” the Trickster said, walking over to regard the painted sigil. “Enochian? Isn't that a little... archaic?”

“I killed you, asshole!” Sam snapped furiously, clenching the stake, barely even noticing that his other arm was still bleeding.

“Can't even teach a young Winchester new tricks, much less an old one.”

“Okay, stop,” Jensen interrupted, holding out a hand, pointing at the Trickster. “Look, I can – But I _know_ –”

“Very coherent,” Misha interrupted, putting his hand out to tug Jensen's arm back down. “Since I happen to know Richard is filming in L.A., I take it you're _not_ him?”

“And you're not Castiel,” the Trickster agreed, looking Misha over with interest. His eyes flicked to Jensen and he smirked, adding, “But that right there? That temper? Pure Dean Winchester. How's it hangin', Jenny?”

Jensen's jaw clenched and he shot Sam a look that suggested, all too clearly, that Sam put the blood-coated stake to use.

“You've had your fun,” Sam interrupted. “Now put me back where I belong.”

The Trickster spread his hands. “You _are_ where you belong, Sammy. The land of stardom – well, stardom and cheaper production costs. Rainy, miserable, Vancouver, B.C.”

“You know what I mean, asshole!”

“Temper, temper!” The Trickster snapped his fingers, blinding everyone as they _moved_ , scaring the crap out of the dogs that had been dozing in the living room, startled out of their naps by the appearance of four people. “Much better. Or warmer, at least.”

Pale at the shock of the instantaneous transport, Jensen sat heavily on the sofa. Misha's blue eyes were bright and intense, staring right at the Trickster fearlessly, as if he wanted to pick up a few pointers.

Sam just glared, taking a step toward the Trickster, raising the stake. “What's the point of this, you bastard? Not satisfied with fucking up individual lives anymore? You've got to go after other _worlds_?”

Rolling his eyes, the Trickster flopped down in the nearest overstuffed leather armchair. Harley immediately pounced; Sam and Jensen both went to lunge to rescue him, but the Trickster just cooed, “Who's a good boy?” and let the dog lick his face.

Misha flicked a glance in Sam's direction, arching a brow questioningly. Sam shrugged.

“I should turn you all into dogs. Well, you two Winchesters, anyway, both fake and real,” the Trickster said around Harley's licks. He gave the dog one last pat; Harley sat down on the Trickster's feet, leaning against his legs, tongue lolling out. “You, Misha-not-Cas... you've got potential.”

“My wife keeps saying that,” Misha sighed dramatically. “I think she's just being nice.”

To Sam's surprise – or perhaps not, thinking about it – the Trickster laughed, delighted. “You, I like. But...” He turned his attention to Sam, saying, “You're the one that called. So what's up, big boy? Want to renegotiate your salary?”

“I _want_ to go back home.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, 'why'? My brother's there! We have to stop Lilith –”

The Trickster sighed deeply. “Sammy, Sammy... Look at what you've got here. Friends, the girl of your dreams, a safe career, even the dogs you've always wanted.”

“It's not _my_ life!”

“Aah, but maybe it _should_ have been,” the Trickster interrupted, his gaze sliding right over to Jensen. “Time for a few unpleasant truths, don't you say, Jenny?”

Jensen's expression became closed, guarded. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, sitting forward on the edge of the couch.

“Well, you _are_ Jared's best friend...”

Jensen went white, jaw clenched with anger, and clenched his fists as he got to his feet. Misha rushed to his side but Sam got there first, holding out an arm, never quite looking away from the Trickster. “Stop,” Sam told the Trickster. “They're not involved. This is between you and me.”

“But they are,” the Trickster said coldly. “You see, Jenny there's been keeping secrets for Jared. That's you, by the way, in this world.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jensen said tightly.

The Trickster snapped his fingers and Jensen collapsed where he was standing, coils of duct tape wrapped around his ankles, wrists, upper arms, and mouth. Misha almost went to help him, but the Trickster said, “Ah ah, I wouldn't do that unless you want some happy bondage fun-time, too.”

Sam took a step closer to the Trickster, saying, “Stop this! You want to fuck with someone, you take me. You let them go.”

“You just don't get it, do you? I've got all of you if I really want – which I don't. Because in case you haven't noticed, you're in Boring-world.”

“What?”

“Open your eyes, Sammy-boy! Didn't you notice you're not craving a hit of demon blood? _This world is clean, Carol Anne._ No monsters. No ghosts. No lamias or demons or shifters or anything else. Even I had a hell of a time getting here – which, by the way, is why Castiel can't make it. Sorry, boy, but the littlest angel just doesn't have that kind of mojo.”

Sam gasped softly; that explained why he felt _good_. But still... “I want to go back to Dean.”

“One-track mind, much? It almost makes a person wonder just what there is between you and Dean-o,” the Trickster said, leering.

“Who are you?” Misha asked suddenly.

The Trickster's gold-brown eyes narrowed. “I've got a lot of names. Why?”

“Coyote? Uncle Tompa? Iktomi? Loki?”

Sam glanced at Misha in surprise; he'd only ever heard of Loki.

“Why?” the Trickster repeated more warily.

“I'm just trying to understand your motive. You've got style – there's no doubt about that. This was inspired,” he added, smirking down at Jensen, who had finally stopped struggling and just glared at everyone.

“Duct tape. It's not just for air conditioning anymore,” the Trickster said loftily, smirking. “But really, what's in a name? Go with Loki, if you must. Coyote's too goth for my style. Iktomi sounds like a cell phone company. And Uncle Tompa's the guy you don't want hanging around your daughters.”

“Okay, Loki,” Sam interrupted warily. “Are you saying you brought me here to _cure_ me?”

“Actually, I could give a rat's ass about your addiction, Sammy-boy. You're the one who decided to go that route. Make your bed, lie in it, I always say. No, the free detox program was just a coincidence.”

“Then why?”

Instead of answering, Loki just studied him for a long, quiet minute. Then he snapped his fingers and Jensen drew in a huge gasp, staggering up to his feet, shouting, “You asshole –“

“Leash your friend, boys, or I'll do it for you,” Loki warned darkly.

Sam looked back worriedly at Jensen, who fell silent at Loki's words. Acting just as belligerent as Dean ever got, Jensen stepped up beside Sam, flicking a glance at the bloody stake.

“It won't work,” Misha said softly.

Sam and Jensen both turned to look at him. “What?” they asked in unison, and Sam felt a pang, remembering when he and Dean would have those moments of perfect synchronicity.

In answer, Misha reached out and took the stake from Sam, never looking away from Loki. “This – it won't work, will it?”

Loki's eyes narrowed for just one moment before he opened his arms, silently inviting Misha to try.

“Sam... You've staked him... what, twice? Three times?” Misha tossed the stake onto the coffee table. “He's not a Trickster.”

“And you're not Castiel,” he mused, tilting his head and looking thoughtfully at Misha. “But you're good. Real good.”

“So I've been told.” Misha went and sat down in the other armchair, looking at Loki as if he were a particularly fascinating program on television.

“If you're _not_ a Trickster, what the hell are you?” Sam demanded.

“Short of God, there's only one thing that can cross between dimensions – two alternate Earths, or... Earth and Hell,” Misha said softly.

“You mean that's an _angel_?” Jensen asked sharply.

Sam gasped, staring at the Trickster-or-angel – who never looked away from Misha, his golden-brown eyes narrowed in thought. Slowly, one corner of his mouth lifted and he raised his hands, clapping. “Nice rationalization. And from an unexpected corner. Of course, you've always been a little stubborn when it comes to losing Dean,” he said, turning from Misha to Sam. “Still haven't learned that lesson, I see.”

“You fucking bastard. _What'd you do to my brother?_ ” he demanded, lunging at him.

Jensen caught him around the waist, using his own momentum and weight to swing him away from the smug little bastard. “Easy! Getting yourself killed won't help!”

“And you're _definitely_ not Dean,” the Trickster-turned-angel laughed, looking between Jensen and Misha in admiration. “You two are... well, you're just _fun_ , aren't you?”

“Again, so I've been told,” Misha interrupted smoothly. “And since the 'littlest angel' doesn't have the power to get here, I take it you're of a higher order?”

His golden brown eyes narrowed. “You might just be too clever for your own good, Misha.”

“Too scared to give us your name?” Sam challenged.

“Obviously he's either Raphael or Gabriel,” Misha interrupted.

“And not Michael?” the intruder asked curiously.

“Without a snarky comment about riding Jensen's ass? It's eminently rideable, you know.”

The little guy let out a howl of laughter. “I could be Lucifer,” he pointed out with a dying chuckle of laughter. “Or did you forget, he's also an archangel?”

“Why would Lucifer free Sam from his addiction, even accidentally?”

The intruder's golden brown eyes narrowed and he nodded slowly. “Very, _very_ good.” He looked at Sam and Jensen, then back to Misha, saying, “Gabriel, then. Because you boys don't know it yet, but Raphael's a complete dick.”

“And you're not?” Sam asked, furiously remembering his last two encounters with this fucker. “What kind of archangel –”

“Obviously,” Gabriel interrupted, “the kind that will put you over his knee if you don't learn when to shut up, Sammy-boy. Teaching lessons is what I do, after all, remember?” He took a deep breath and flexed his shoulders, combing back his hair with one hand. “Now sit down, all of you, and _think_ for a minute.”

Being a Winchester, Sam didn't really know when to back down, even for his own good. Jensen, though, was a Winchester only by profession, not by blood, so Sam let the actor drag him back to sit on the sofa. Misha resumed his seat on the armchair, folding one leg under the other, leaning against one armrest with his head propped on his fist.

“Obviously you want Sam here and Jared there – or one or the other,” Misha said.

“You're bucking for the day's gold star, aren't you?” Gabriel asked. “Which do you think?”

“You want me here,” Sam snapped. “What's the matter? Afraid of what Dean and I can do together?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Hardly.”

“You've never seen an angel killing sword,” Misha said to Sam, tilting his head.

Sam blinked; Gabriel smirked. Jensen shot Misha a puzzled look, asking, “What?”

“Props had a half dozen of them made,” Misha explained to him. “They got the prototype a couple of weeks ago.”

“You were in L.A. a couple of weeks ago.”

Misha shrugged. “I went to the manufacturer and ordered one for Vicki's birthday. I had to get Eric to fax permission to reproduce the design for me.”

“Vicky? Your wife?” Gabriel interrupted.

“You know?” Misha got a strange little smile. “She'd love to have a feather,” he hinted, big eyes going big and hopeful.

“You boys got that wrong. Our wings aren't feathered.”

“What are they?”

“Storms,” Gabriel said, and right on cue, thunder exploded overhead, loud enough to rattle every window in the house.

“That wouldn't get through customs,” Misha muttered.

“So,” Gabriel said, looking back at Sam. “You ready to thank me yet, or did you want to do more bitching and moaning?”

“ _Thank_ you? For what?” Sam demanded.

Gabriel spread his hands. “This. Your dream. A cushy job, a world without monsters, no more 'boy with the demon blood'... A living family, a girl who loves you, your friends,” he added, gesturing to Jensen and Misha.

“It's _Jared's_ life!” Jensen snapped, though he shot Sam an apologetic look. “You can't just fucking give it away!”

“Ah. No. But they can _trade_.” Gabriel smirked at Sam, adding, “You'll be happy to know that Dean and Jared took care of the Jersey devils you boys were hunting. Tomorrow, they're leaving to check out demonic omens on Long Island, I believe. Or maybe Connecticut.”

“Jared went hunting?” Jensen asked, going pale. “As in – monster hunting?”

“Did pretty well, too. Seems to have a natural flair for it.”

Sam sat back, looking at the coffee table, stunned. His brother... hunting with someone who _wasn't_ him? It was like finding out your girlfriend cheated on you or something.

“God, I feel like we just kicked a pair of puppies,” Misha said mournfully.

Sam's head jerked up, then to Jensen, who had a stricken look that Sam was positive mirrored his own.

“Truth hurts, boys,” Gabriel said bluntly. “And I wasn't even the one who pulled the ol’ switcheroo.”

“I want to talk to Dean,” Sam cut in. “You can arrange that.”

“Ah, yeah. But not right now,” Gabriel said, smirking. “Dean-o's a little... busy.”

Sam couldn't hide his wince. He knew his brother preferred to pick up whatever girl (or two) he could the night of a successful hunt.

“So's Jared,” Gabriel added helpfully.

Jensen flinched. “He's dating – Hell, he was talking about getting engaged,” he protested.

“With each other,” the archangel said, smirking.

Sam gasped.

Jensen flinched again, guiltily.

Misha let out a low, satisfied sound. “Aha. I knew it,” he said smugly.

“You knew?” Jensen asked, his voice rough.

Misha nodded. “I always thought it more likely that _you_ two... No?” he asked, tilting his head in surprise. “Oh. You're not...?”

Jensen, blushing furiously, looked away.

“Well. Ruin my dreams, why don't you,” Misha accused, looking back at Gabriel. “So what now?”

“Now? We wait,” Gabriel said –

And vanished.


	6. Chapter 6

_Friday, 8:30 p.m. EDT | 5:30 p.m. PDT_

So Jared scoured the internet (and discovered that there was more freaky shit happening in the world than he’d ever imagined) and Dean sharpened his knives, reheated pizza, and at one point went out to get more beer. Jared discovered that even major news sites had relevant articles, filed under tags like ‘oddball’ and ‘weird’, so it wasn’t all Weekly World News and National Enquirer.

He didn’t even try to hide a proud grin when Dean sat up, upon hearing a story about freak lightning storms with no rain out on Long Island, New York. “What could do that to the weather?”

“Demons, most likely,” Dean said at once. “Witches. Major poltergeist activity. But my first bet is on demons.”

“Lilith? One of the seals?”

Dean paused, lifting the knife to examine the edge, and then snapped the knife into its sheath. He flipped the whetstone box closed and tossed the stone onto his duffel, just missing the open zipper. Twisting like a cat, he reached up to slide the knife under his pillow. “Maybe. Let’s stick with garden-variety demons. We can be there by tomorrow evening,” he said happily, rolling onto his back.

“Just like that,” Jared muttered, automatically logging in to check his email – or trying to, anyway. Naturally his login didn’t even exist, though Gmail helpfully offered to let him sign up for a free email account under his real name.

“Hmm?”

“Oh. Just that you can… pick up and go, just like that.” Jared shut down the computer and got up, stretching his back. He couldn’t help but look over at Dean, who was still wearing nothing but his amulet, silver ring, and blue jeans, now speckled with gun oil. He was idly rubbing the comforter between his fingertips, probably drying off the oil.

A little amused, Jared went to the bathroom and got a damp washcloth, taking a minute to splash some water onto his face and tell himself to _stop staring_. That one kiss, back at the cave, both of them freezing and bloody and battered but _alive_ , had probably been just because they’d both survived. Anyone who’d ever seen Supernatural knew Dean Winchester liked women. Really, really, really liked them.

When he was at least a bit more under control, he walked back to the bedroom and tossed the wet cloth at Dean. The hunter rolled up onto one elbow, wiped his hands with a nod of thanks, and asked, “What’d you mean by that?”

“If I want to go somewhere, I have to report in to something like six different people. Gen, Jensen, my publicist, the directors, my trainers…”

“Your trainers?”

Jared didn’t catch the innuendo until he noticed Dean’s smirk. Then he just rolled his eyes and moved the now-empty pizza boxes off his bed so he could flop down. “I’ve got a trainer who handles Harley and Sadie, my dogs. And a personal trainer to stay in shape, though he’s not in Vancouver. Jensen sort of took over that role. We keep each other on track.”

Dean laughed and threw the washcloth at him before sprawling onto his back once more. “Sorry to say it, man, but that’s just fucking boring.”

 _Exactly, _he thought flatly, tossing the cloth onto the floor. It felt weird even thinking it, though Dean had nailed it perfectly – maybe _because_ he had nailed it perfectly. Trying to push the thought away, he changed the subject, asking, “So, if it’s a demon, what do we do?”__

Dean turned his head, then rolled back over onto his elbow again. “We’ve got a nine-hour drive tomorrow, dude. We can talk about demons then.”

It took a moment for Dean’s words to cut through the fog of four beers in Jared’s brain. Then he turned, meeting that sharp green gaze, and felt his breath catch. “I’m – I’m supposed to be getting engaged soon.”

“Not in this world, you’re not. In fact, feel free to call that bitch Ruby here right now, and I’ll teach you how to do an exorcism,” Dean offered with a feral, cold grin.

“That’s just too strange to think about,” Jared protested.

“Then take the fucking hint and _stop thinking_ ,” Dean said, rolling his legs off his bed and crossing the distance between them. “You did damn good today. Kept your head on straight. Probably saved my ass. Didn’t bitch about it – once Cas showed off his wings, anyway.” He reached down and took hold of Jared’s shirt – Sam’s shirt, actually – and pulled up, half-dragging Jared to sit upright so they could work on removing the shirt together. “And sometimes, spells only last twenty-four hours – sunrise to sunrise, that sort of thing. So I’m not wasting tonight talking about demons – unless that’s _really_ what you want.”

Jared looked up at him, feeling just a little overwhelmed. This wasn’t Jensen, his best friend – it was Dean Winchester, who was _almost_ his best friend and _almost_ a complete stranger all at once.

Dean leaned down into the silence, pressing his hands into the bed on either side of Jared’s hips. “I’m not _him_ , and you’re not Sam, which means there’s no reason not to do this,” he said, his voice dropping into that soft, deep register that clawed through Jared’s guts, shivering into his dick. “You’ve been showing off for me all fucking day, Jared – flaunting what you’ve got.”

“And you haven’t been?” Jared challenged as lust won out over fear.

“Was wondering how fucking long it’d take for you to notice,” Dean said, leaning in to kiss him again.

Jared had just enough time to draw breath before Dean’s lips claimed his, tongue sweeping at the seam before pressing in, teasing over his teeth. He tasted of spicy pizza sauce and beer and wild heat, never once hesitating as he explored, all confidence and determination. A nudge made Jared move over enough for Dean to climb onto the bed, never once pausing in his claiming of Jared’s mouth.

Dean twisted, bracing his weight across his body, freeing his hand to reach up and tangle in Jared’s hair. When his fist closed, sparks shot out from Jared’s scalp, making him gasp at the strength of just that simple touch. Dean tugged his head back and moved from his lips to his bared throat, tongue scraping over the stubble Jared always left when he shaved, because he was contracted to always have that scruffy look. Genevieve did that, but he’d always hated it; it felt like being licked by a kitten, too cute and ticklish to be sexy at all. Dean was more like a predatory lion – doubly so when he bit down suddenly, holding nothing back.

Pain and pleasure shot through Jared’s body, stars bursting in the darkness of his closed eyes. “Fuck. Dean,” he breathed, finally remembering that this was real, that he could touch and feel, that this wasn’t some fantasy that would go away if he tried to make it more than just his imagination. He flattened his palms on Dean’s chest and dug in with his fingers, running his hands everywhere, pressing against the rise and fall of the hunter’s heavy, steady breaths.

“Not yet,” Dean laughed wickedly against his throat. “Gonna make sure you want it. Make you beg for it,” he threatened, laying a line of sharp little bites along Jared’s jaw.

 _Oh, God,_ Jared thought dizzily, not even able to fight Dean’s hold on his hair as he turned Jared’s head, laying claim to the flesh he exposed. Jared’s hands were locked against Dean’s biceps, feeling muscles like steel cables under skin like silk. When Dean’s tongue swept up over the curve of his ear, he shivered and his mind just about shut down.

“What was that?” Dean whispered, hot breath ghosting over his ear.

Fuck, Jared couldn’t even remember if he’d said anything, but Dean had drawn back to look at him, mischief glinting in those gorgeous green eyes. Trapped beneath the hunter, he took a ragged breath and somehow rallied his concentration enough to challenge, “It’ll take more than that to get me to beg, Winchester.”

Dean’s eyes lit up with pleasure, lips curving up in a smirk. “I dunno, Jared. Pretty little actor like you, maybe I should take it easy. Give you a break.”

The writers always hid Dean’s playful streak down deep, though Jared and Jensen had talked about it when discussing how to better get into their characters’ heads. Seeing it now, turned against him, was like waving a cape in front of a bull.

Gathering his strength, Jared twisted, bringing one knee up into Dean’s gut, not to knock the wind out of him but just to get him off-balance, since he was kneeling up on the springy, worn mattress. Startled, Dean let go of his hair and flipped onto his back. He got his arms crossed defensively in front just as Jared rolled on top of him, braced for a flash of anger from the hunter. “You really want to take it easy?”

Dean just laughed and grabbed hold of Jared’s hips, pulling their bodies together hard to make them both gasp at the pleasure. “Fuck no,” he laughed, sliding his hands to Jared’s abs, pushing the hem of his shirt up. “Get this off,” he ordered.

Completely in agreement that he was wearing too many clothes – that they both were, in fact – Jared pulled the shirt off and threw it aside. He was damn proud of his body and not shy about showing off.

And Dean wasn’t shy about looking. He let his eyes roam, followed by his fingers trailing over muscles, sliding over one nipple to send a shock through Jared’s body. “Too fuckin’ pretty for your own good, Jared,” he teased in a low growl, lashes sweeping down as he looked at his own scarred, muscular chest before returning to his survey of Jared’s body.

The contrast was striking, but Jared couldn’t help thinking he was getting the better end of the deal. His own body was almost as planned and crafted as his acting skills, the product of directors telling him what they wanted and a physical trainer to help him achieve those goals.

He knelt back, resting his weight on Dean’s thighs, and traced a finger over the tattoo. Dean inhaled, arching into the touch for a moment before a subtle tension rippled through his body. “Shit,” he muttered, nudging at Jared, pushing up onto his elbows.

This wasn’t play; Jared moved, watching in confusion as Dean rolled off the bed and went to the desk. “What?”

“Stay here,” Dean ordered, snatching up the car keys and stalking for the door.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 8:30 p.m. EDT | 5:30 p.m. PDT_

It was Misha who finally broke the silence, of course. “This isn’t productive,” he announced, getting to his feet. He walked over to the couch and held out his hands to Jensen and Sam.

“Mish,” Jensen warned.

“I know where your garage is,” Misha said incongruously. “If you don’t get up _right now_ , I’ll go find the duct tape and recreate what Gabriel did to you, only without your pants.”

“Fuck,” Jensen said, raking a hand through his hair as he got to his feet, smacking Misha’s hand away. It wasn’t angry; it was the sort of unconscious playfulness that comes from people whose personalities and souls mesh perfectly, in a way that made you think of words like friendship and love and brotherhood.

Kind of like Sam and Dean – when they weren’t fighting, or when Sam wasn’t running away, or when Dean wasn’t being a bossy asshole.

“I probably can’t overpower you,” Misha told Sam, “But I know I can stay awake longer than you, and the result is the same. So what’s it going to be?”

Sam accepted Misha’s help to his feet, a little warily, but Misha just gave him a reassuring smile and pat on the shoulder. “Jensen, go take a hot shower and relax. Take your phone for when Danneel texts you. I’m putting Sam in the guest room.”

“Fuck,” Jensen repeated; that seemed to be his theme for the evening. “Put him in Jared’s room. You take the guest room. No reason for you to be on the couch.”

“How do you know I wasn’t going to be in one of your beds?”

“Because Sam can probably kill you bare-handed, and Danneel knows your wife’s phone number.”

“His logic is blinding,” Misha told Sam, herding him out of the living room. “You wouldn’t kill me, would you?”

“Um. Probably just on instinct, but I’d be quick,” Sam told him, more than a little flustered. “Dean took Jared hunting.”

Misha slid an arm around his shoulders, glancing back over in Jensen’s direction. “I know, “he said softly, “but... don’t think about it tonight, okay? You need to rest. We’re not going to solve the world’s problems tonight.”

Sam sighed and let Misha steer him into Jared’s bedroom, where Sadie and Harley pushed past them and went to a pair of plush dog beds under the window. Misha went to the bed and pulled back the covers. “If you don’t get in quickly, you risk having all sorts of company,” he threatened.

“Are you serious?” Sam had to ask. “I just – I mean, you’re practically Castiel.”

Misha laughed. “That’s a great compliment. Now get in the bed.”

Sam gave in as gracefully as he could, feeling kind of like he was being treated like a child, though it reminded him of how Dean would take care of him when they were young. “Is Jensen going to be okay?” he asked guiltily.

Misha’s blue eyes went to the door, his expression troubled. “I hope so. To be honest, I’m more worried about him than about Genevieve.”

“Why?”

Misha looked down at Sam, then sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching past Sam to take a couple of pillows so he could sit comfortably against the headboard. The far end of the bed creaked as Harley crawled up as stealthily as possible for a dog that big.

“First off, Genevieve and Jared _are_ very good friends. But... it’s more like brother and sister. They dated a few times, and had fun, but they kept dating because of the pressure.” Misha sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “You have to understand, they’ve tried introducing females into the show before, and it’s never really worked. The dynamic between – well, the Winchester brothers... it’s too strong. I don’t have a clue how I managed to get in as good as I did,” he admitted. “So when Jared and Genevieve went on just a couple of dates, everyone was thrilled. They just... kept dating.”

Guilt gnawed at Sam all over again. He sighed. “I tried to stop,” he said quietly. “Ruby’s just trying to help, though. I _know_ it. She was a human once – that’s what Dean doesn’t understand. She remembers what it was like, being human. She doesn’t want the apocalypse any more than we do.”

“Jared’s gay.”

Sam opened his mouth a second before his trail of thought derailed.

Misha looked at him, arching a brow. “You see the problem.”

Sam closed his mouth.

“It’s Hollywood,” Misha said dismissively. “Well, Vancouver. But still. It’s not like it’s _that_ big a deal... except that Jared’s still in his twenties, the perfect leading man to pull in the eighteen to thirty-five female crowd, tough enough that he can pull off a hero’s role... And typecasting still happens.”

“God... So he and Genevieve – it was all fake?”

“As I said, they were friends. In their eyes, it would hardly be a burden. It would probably have only lasted a couple of years and ended amicably, with no children. At least, that _was_ my prediction,” Misha said, looking back at Sam again.

Sam’s eyes narrowed as he got a hint of what Misha was implying. “Oh, no. I can’t just take someone’s girlfriend –”

“I know,” Misha said, and suddenly laughed, a spark showing bright in his eyes. “I saw the pilot episode.”

“Huh?”

“Oh – the, ah, woman in white. ‘You can’t kill me. I’m not unfaithful.’ Hm?”

“You know _that_?”

Misha waved a hand dismissively. “I know more than anyone suspects. But there’s no reason _you_ can’t get to know Genevieve – if your preference is for women...”

“Uh. Yeah,” Sam said, embarrassed. Suddenly he felt bad; Misha seemed like a good guy, but... “I mean, you’ve been nice –”

Misha cut him off with a laugh. “I’m _married_ , Sam, and I love her more than even I can comprehend sometimes. But that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t end up in here if you were having a nightmare, just so you could get a good night’s sleep. I don’t let social conventions get in the way of friendship – that’s all.”

Sam laughed quietly, feeling... not relieved so much as content, thanks to even the implied offer of friendship. “It happens more than even Dean knows,” he admitted. “But... I really don’t feel – I mean, the demon blood... Gabriel was telling the truth. There’s no _craving_. I don’t think I’ve felt this good in my whole life. It’s like, I always knew _something_ was wrong with me.”

“See? Think about that and try to get some sleep. If you wake up, go take a hot bath or hit the kitchen, but try to just rest. I need to talk Jensen down from the ledge.”

Sam nodded, realizing how strange it was, to feel like someone who was essentially a complete stranger actually cared about him. “Thanks, Misha.”

“If anyone asks, though, the sex was _amazing_. I have a reputation to maintain,” he added before he headed out, leaving the door open a bit. He peeked back in and grinned when Sam laughed. “Remember where the guest room is, in case you need me?”

“Yeah. I’m good, thanks.”

As Misha left, Sam rolled over, wiggling an arm out from under the blanket. “C’mere, Harley,” he called softly. He was pretty sure this was breaking the rules, but Harley bounded to his feet and bounced up to the head of the bed, flopping down to bathe Sam’s face happily. His tail thumped loudly on the thick down comforter.

 _Dean went hunting with Jared,_ he thought, and that hollow, empty spot inside his chest pulsed with pain. But Harley kept licking him and wagging his tail, and the windows were unsalted and no one had searched the closet for monsters, and he had at least one friend here – two, if you counted Harley – and Sadie would come around...

 _No demon blood,_ he thought, closing his eyes and cuddling Harley close.

* * * * *

 _Friday, 8:45 p.m. EDT | 5:45 p.m. PDT_

Baffled, Jared sat up against the headboard, feeling just a bit wary – and insecure, he admitted privately. He had no illusions about what was going on between him and Dean: it was pure, hedonistic, self-indulgence. The chance to have something that neither of them could have, under other circumstances.

But, God… was it guilt over wanting someone who looked _exactly_ like his younger brother? Fuck, Jared was an idiot. He’d been caught up in the similarities between Dean and Jensen that he hadn’t even considered it from Dean’s point of view. Even if the man did admit to the undeniable attraction, it was his _brother_ , which went so far beyond fucked up…

Dean came back in, flipping the security bolt into place before tossing his keys onto the desk, carrying something dangling from his other hand. He threw that at Jared, saying, “Put that on.”

Surprised, Jared caught it and pulled the leather thong over his head before looking at the small silver medallion. It was old and time-worn, black tarnish picking out the shape of a sunburst and pentagram, identical to Dean’s tattoo.

“This – it’s a charm against possession?” he guessed, looking up.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, pulling a cardboard canister of table salt out of his duffel bag. “Sometimes I don’t bother when Cas is here, and then _you_ fucking distracted me.” He shot a quick grin in Jared’s direction before he crouched by the door, shaking a line of salt across the threshold.

“Wait – you got out of bed… for that?”

Dean didn’t even look up until he’d finished with the door. “Not gonna let anything happen to you on my watch,” he said, crossing to the window. “Maybe nothing out there knows that you’re here, but I’m not taking that chance.”

It had taken a few episodes for Jared to pick up on the vibe the writers were creating between the brothers, with Sam’s constant bids for independence and Dean’s desperate need to protect his little brother. When he’d mentioned it to Jensen, his co-star had just laughed and called him oblivious, saying it had been obvious to him from the first. But realizing it from the scripts and seeing it live like this were two very different things.

He watched as Dean set a line of salt at both the window and the air conditioner. “Sam’s lucky to have you,” he said quietly.

Dean looked over his shoulder, covering the last inch of carpet before he stood up from his crouch. “Not that I’m arguing, but what brought that on?”

A little embarrassed, Jared laughed and said, “You really care – not just about strangers you save from monsters. You care about – well, me, for one, when you should probably be hating me for taking Sam’s place.”

“Did you do it on purpose? ’Cause when we woke up this morning, you were pretty fuckin’ pissed.”

“Yeah, well, you try waking up – Wait. Did, uh, the thing with the djinn happen?”

Dean’s green eyes narrowed and he nodded once, curtly. “Yeah. You know about that, huh?”

“Yeah. Sorry,” Jared said softly. Even reading the script, he’d empathized with Dean’s character. Talk about a hard choice to make… “It’s – It’s kinda like that, Dean.”

“ _This_ is your fantasy?”

Jared hesitated, sitting up a bit more against the headboard, watching as Dean put the salt away and stalked back toward the bed. “Don’t get me wrong – I have a great life. Great job, a family that loves me, a girl who… doesn’t ask for what I’m not able to give her. But… this – what you do – it has meaning. Why wouldn’t I want that?”

Dean smirked humorlessly and walked to the edge of the bed, never breaking eye contact. “You really mean it.”

“Of course I do.”

Dean’s smirk became a feral, hungry grin. He pushed down his jeans and kicked them aside without a hint of shyness. “Thanks for saying it,” he said, a bit strangely, as he reached forward to unbutton Jared’s jeans.

Jared swallowed, his throat dry, heart pounding against his ribs. “Why?”

“Helps remind me I’m not crazy – and that you’re not my brother. Sam hates hunting, and I know it. But you… you don’t, which is a really, really good thing, because that means you really aren’t my brother. So, as soon as I get these jeans off you –” He unzipped the fly and tugged to prompt Jared to get his hips up. “– I’m going to fuck you until you can’t think straight.”

 _Oh, God. This is really happening._ He stared up at Dean, breathless, as the _reality_ of it hit him all at once. One miserable time in high school, full of the terror of confronting his own sexuality, and then years of _wanting_ but denying... And now, of all people who could possibly want him... _Dean Winchester_?

Desperate to prove himself, to keep pace with Dean’s overwhelming self-confidence, Jared twisted, shoving his jeans down so he could kick them off his ankles. It took all of his acting skills for his words to come out strong and not as a faint, hopeful plea: “You talk too much, Winchester.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Saturday, 9:00 a.m. EDT | 6:00 a.m. PDT_

Sadie came around sooner than Sam expected. He’d napped and taken a hot shower, feeling better – just like Misha had told him – and then he’d flopped back down on the bed, thinking of just closing his eyes for a few minutes before grabbing dinner. With a little whine, as if to apologize for snubbing him, Sadie crawled up onto the bed and curled against his side. Harley, not to be outdone, flopped on his other side, and he petted them, relaxing in complete safety…

And then it was six the next morning, when Sadie woke him up by whining and licking at his hand, chin resting pathetically on the side of his bed. Sam smiled when he saw her, thinking how _nice_ it was that he hadn’t had a single nightmare.

As soon as he sat up, Harley bounced to his feet, and the two dogs started spinning wildly, as if they were going to die _right now_ if they didn’t... “What do you want, guys?” Sam asked, shivering a bit. “Out? Food? Breakfast?”

They spun in mad circles the whole time he talked, so he figured it was both (or they didn’t speak English). He found a bathrobe in the closet that must have been specially bought, because it actually fit, unlike the ones he’d occasionally tried on in Wal-marts across America. He found slippers, too, and wriggled his toes at the strange feeling when he put them on.

“I hope you guys can just go in the backyard,” he said quietly, following the dogs, trusting them to know where they were going. They made a mad dash for the living room, leaving him to follow in their wake, yawning and wondering about the nearest coffee shop, until it occurred to him that maybe Jared and Jensen had one of those one-cup machines here, like in the trailer on set.

He came around the corner –

Jensen was sitting on the sofa, papers scattered on the coffee table, his mop-like dog sprawled on the floor underneath. There were a couple of plates on the table and a ceramic coffee cup. He shot Sam a guilty look and said, “I’ll take care of them.”

Sam hesitated, wanting to protest, but figured Jensen knew their routine. “Thanks.”

“Coffee’s made,” Jensen invited, waving a hand in the direction of the kitchen.

Figuring that was as good an invitation as he’d get, Sam went to the kitchen and poured himself coffee. He debated scrounging for breakfast, though that felt too much like intruding. He was a guest, but definitely an unwanted one – though that was hardly his fault.

He finally just leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee, feeling marginally more rational about the very _irrational_ situation he was in.

Jensen came in a little while later, alone. “You want breakfast?” he offered.

“I don’t want to impose.”

“Sam, you could starve with that attitude before we figure this out. Bacon and eggs okay?”

Guiltily, Sam nodded. “Sure.”

“I know Misha told you last night,” Jared said, getting a couple of pans out of the cabinets. “Jare didn’t even tell me until we’d been living together almost six months. He was dating some other chick when we started filming. It fell apart right after they announced their engagement.”

“Jensen, you don’t have to –”

“If we don’t get you and Jare switched back, _I do_. Because otherwise, everything just falls apart. Me and Mish and a whole bunch of good people – we all lose our jobs. And my best friend ends up locked in a mental ward for delusions.”

Sam closed his eyes, understanding Jensen’s need to do _something_. “Castiel won’t let us down. He’ll find a way.”

“It seemed like it was the Trickster’s decision.” Jensen paused at the fridge, looking back in disbelief. “A fucking _archangel_?”

Sam shrugged. “It would explain why we couldn’t kill him,” he admitted. “God knows we tried often enough. After what he did...”

Jensen shook his head. “You really watched Dean – I mean, did that thing at the Mystery Spot happen?”

Sam couldn’t hide his flinch. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” Jensen said, sounding genuinely upset. He piled a package of bacon, eggs, and a bag of shredded cheese on the counter. “Look, I can’t tell you what to do. You’re right – this isn’t your life. If you want to... I don’t know, quit the show, move somewhere... I’ll help. Whatever you need.”

“No! No, it’s... it’s fine. I mean, I should just do whatever Jared would’ve done. If or when he comes back or whatever...” Sam hesitated, taking another gulp of coffee, letting it burn down his throat. “I did okay yesterday, right?” he asked, suddenly needing the reassurance, despite realizing he sounded about ten years younger with the plaintive question.

Jensen snorted, cracking eggs into a big bowl. “Fuckin’ natural,” he said disbelievingly. “Seriously, it was _scary_.”

“For ‘scary’, try a hellhound,” Sam said flatly.

Jensen looked over his shoulder, green eyes dark, a thin, vertical frown line creasing his brow.

“I’m sorry,” Sam sighed, finally going around the breakfast bar and sliding up onto one of the stools. “I just –”

“It’s okay,” he said more gently. “You’ve basically been at war your whole life. That type of thing leaves scars.”

 _No shit,_ Sam thought, looking around the kitchen. “Do you realize I could kill thirteen different types of creatures with what you’ve got in this kitchen – sixteen if you’ve got both kosher salt and sea salt – but I’ve never made an omelet?”

Jensen stopped what he was doing and looked back again. “Seriously?”

Sam nodded. “I tried once or twice in college. The first time, the R.A. confiscated my hotplate. The second – Jess stopped me,” he said, feeling a lump in his throat, as always, when he thought about Jess.

“Get your ass over here,” Jensen said, as though making a decision. “If we can get you back, we may as well show you a useful skill or two.”

“I don’t want to get in the way –”

“You may be Sam Fucking Winchester, but I can still kick your ass. Get over here,” Jensen said, grinning. “Didn’t Dean teach you to listen to your elders?”

Sam laughed. “Yeah. Only do you _really_ want to have to do whatever Misha says?”

“Good point.”

* * * * *

 _Saturday, 9:00 a.m. EDT | 6:00 a.m. PDT_

Jared came awake to the realization that he was _not_ in bed with Genevieve. The arm around his waist was too strong, as were the callused fingers idly stroking his cock. And the hot, hard, insistent push against the crack of his ass… no, definitely not Gen.

He rolled over in a tangle of limbs and found Dean already seeking his lips, pushing his tongue insistently into Jared’s mouth despite the morning-after taste. “Spell didn’t break,” Dean muttered, one fist closing around the leather thong holding the anti-possession charm. He twisted, pulling the leather tight around Jared’s neck for a moment, licking at his lips again. “Regrets?”

“Fuck, no,” Jared breathed honestly, pushing his body closer against Dean’s, rolling up onto him. “You always like this in the mornings?”

“I hate most mornings,” Dean admitted, spreading his legs and arching his body up against Jared, still holding him close by the necklace. “Never sleep with anyone next to me, either.”

“It’s interesting you say that.”

Jared’s heart skipped at that familiar, gravelly voice coming from _behind_ him. “Misha, you ass –” he snapped reflexively, distinctly remembering one time Misha let himself into Jared’s trailer and proceeded to give advice on what he’d observed between Jared and Gen.

“Fuck. Cas,” Dean groaned, just closing his eyes and letting his head sink back into the pillow. He released Jared’s necklace.

Jared almost rolled out of bed until he realized that would leave him standing there completely naked. He settled for twisting off Dean’s body – regretfully – and hiding the evidence of his arousal under the blankets.

Castiel was standing there, head tilted slightly, watching without a hint of embarrassment – in fact, he was watching with every sign of curiosity, even interest, which made Jared wonder if he’d ever seen anyone, much less two men, in bed together.

God, what a difference from Misha, who knew far, far too much for anyone’s good, except maybe his wife’s.

“Cas,” Dean finally said into the silence. “You have… news? Or are you just bored?”

“I have some news, yes,” Castiel said, just a little evasively. “I’m certain Lucifer cannot possess Jared’s body as his vessel, despite the… similarities to your brother.”

Dean frowned, shot Jared an apologetic look, and swung his legs out from under the blanket. He stood without a hint of shyness and stepped into the jeans he’d discarded on the floor last night, tugging them up over his half-hard cock, which was doubly a shame, since it had been fully hard only about thirty seconds earlier. “But when Sam comes back, it’s game on again.”

“If he comes back.”

That made Dean and Jared both look over at the angel standing by the foot of the bed. “If?” they said at the same time, in that way that made the directors grin and the fangirls squeal.

Castiel nodded. “It is possible… that we could just leave the spell as it is,” he ventured. “Sam is safe from Lucifer, and the world where he is lacks the monsters you hunt.”

Dean sat on the edge of the other bed, scowling at Castiel. “How’s that possible?”

“There are infinite variations of an infinite number of worlds. The Enochian spell was very specific in choosing what happened. It gave not only Jared what he wanted most, but it did the same for Sam – for the benefit of both worlds.”

 _Fuck,_ Jared thought, throwing aside his modesty to sit up, watching the realization cross Dean’s face like a thunderstorm. He wished he could offer Dean a hand to hold or some sort of comfort, but he didn’t know Dean – the real Dean, that is – well enough. And what he did know just warned him that he’d get punched for trying.

“No more hunting,” Dean said tightly, staring distantly down toward the carpet. “A normal, _safe_ life.”

“I haven’t spoken with him yet,” Castiel said delicately, walking up the aisle between the beds. He sat down right next to Dean, half-twisted, looking directly at him as if he were the only person left alive in the whole world. “I wanted to speak with you first.”

Dean took a deep breath and his green eyes slid over to the angel’s face. “If I told you not to tell him – if I told you to bring him back…” he said, and Jared held his breath.

Castiel’s eyes closed a bit too long for it to pass as a blink. When they opened, he was looking away, toward the wall. “Heaven’s will isn’t clear, Dean. I wouldn’t be disobeying, either way,” he said evasively.

“Can you… give me a few?” Dean asked, shoving abruptly up to his feet. He made a sort of gesture in the direction of the bathroom, pushed past Castiel, and vanished around the corner.

Jared watched Castiel, who watched Dean, at least until he was out of sight. Before the angel could say anything, Jared asked, his voice so soft that he was almost whispering, “Is Sam happy there? Do you know?”

Castiel gave him a puzzled look but nodded. “I believe he is, yes.”

“And… does anyone know that he’s not… me?’

Again, the angel nodded. “Yes.”

“But... he'd be okay?”

Another nod. “Yes.”

Jared licked his lips and glanced around the room. It was filthy and probably could use a good fire to sterilize all the flat surfaces. The wallpaper was water-damaged, matching the rusty stains on the ceiling, and the bed probably hadn't been new twenty years ago. It was worse than anything the set crew could come up with, and they had a blast trying to outdo themselves with kitsch and seediness. He couldn’t remember ever staying somewhere this bad; a week ago, he wouldn’t have even touched the door with bare skin to let himself out.

At home, his bank accounts were comfortable enough that he’d never have to work another day in his life. Here, he didn’t even think he had enough change to use a payphone.

“Would you excuse me for a minute?” he asked, and got up, not waiting for the angel to answer, not even bothering to find his pants.

* * * * *

 _Saturday, 9:15 a.m. EDT | 6:15 a.m. PDT_

“Thank God,” he said, finding Dean leaning on the counter just outside the bathroom door. He crowded Dean into the bathroom and managed to bang the door closed with one hip before the hunter could protest.

“What the hell, man?” Dean snapped as the door closed.

“You’re going to have to teach me to pick locks,” Jared said, leaning next to the doorknob. “I was half afraid you’d locked yourself in here and I’d have to break in.”

Dean’s green eyes flashed with anger. “You want to explain what you’re doing –”

“Saving your fucking conscience,” Jared said bluntly.

“What?”

Jared nodded, raking his hair back, never looking away from Dean’s face. “You went to Hell for Sam.”

Dean’s flinch was answer enough.

“But you also pulled him out of Stanford. Dragged him back out on the road. Back into hunting – into danger.”

“We make a hell of a team,” Dean protested. “Besides, I can’t watch him if he’s –” He faltered before his eyes narrowed shrewdly, suspiciously. “You want me to leave him there.”

Jared took a deep breath; the accusation in Dean’s expression felt like a kick in the balls. “Yeah.”

“And you? What’re you running from?” the hunter demanded suspiciously.

Damn. Trust Dean to get right to the point. “It’s not _just_ that,” Jared hedged. “I was an actor because I’m good at it and I made a hell of a lot of money. I love my family and my friends and my dogs. I even love Genevieve, though maybe not the way I should. So maybe it’s more that I’m running _to_ something. I wasn’t lying when I said that I could be happy doing this, Dean.”

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “And you think I should just leave Sammy there? Never see him again? Never know if he’s okay or needs me?” he asked sharply.

And that was the heart of the matter.

Jared could understand. When Sam had been at Stanford, Dean had been at most a few days’ drive across the nation, probably much closer most of the time. And for almost the rest of their lives, they’d been practically joined at the hip. But more than that, he’d seen how Dean actually cared – his need to protect and guard and help the people he loved.

“I know,” Jared admitted quietly. “But maybe you should find out what _he_ wants? It’s not really your decision to make, is it?”

“Like he’s so damned good at making decisions?” Dean demanded angrily. “Fucking some demon chick, drinking her blood –”

“I know,” Jared said, holding up his hands in surrender. “But Dean… if there aren’t any demons there, there’s also no demon blood. Maybe this really is what he needs.”

“So you’d throw away this perfect, rich, _safe_ life and give it all to Sam?”

There was no real answer that Dean would believe. “I can’t ask you to let your brother go,” Jared said honestly. “To never see him or talk to him again.”

Dean spat out another curse and turned away, clenching a fist, arm tensed. He managed not to hit the tile wall by sheer force of will; he slammed his palm into it instead, bowing his head, taking a deep breath. “I don’t even have to ask what he wants,” he said, his voice a low snarl. “He’s probably in fucking paradise.”

“Dean, I’m sure he misses you,” Jared said with absolute certainty. “Everyone knows he loves you.”

Dean shot a hard glare his way and pushed away from the wall. “Never fucking stopped him from leaving me,” he snapped, pushing past Jared to wrench open the door. “Cas!”

Jared followed Dean out into the little no-man’s-land between the door, the bathroom counter, and the closet in time to see Castiel step into sight. “Dean.”

“Can you… go find out what Sam wants? Don’t tell him you told me,” Dean added tensely.

Jared realized at once what Dean was doing and quickly shook his head, trying to catch the angel’s eye. Castiel wasn’t subtle; he looked past Dean to Jared and frowned curiously, making Dean look over his shoulder.

“I need – There are things I need to find out, too,” Jared said quickly, ad-libbing his lines. He met Dean’s eyes with just the right amount of sincerity and added, “I was supposed to be getting engaged. I owe Genevieve… something.”

Dean considered that for a suspicious moment before he nodded. “Yeah. All right,” he finally agreed.

“If, uh, you’ve got a couple bucks, I can go find us coffee,” Jared offered, hurriedly retrieving his pants.

“Yeah. None of that girly shit,” Dean warned ominously, rifling through his wallet. “You, uh, know how to drive, right?”

Jared laughed. “Of course. Though I don’t have my license.”

“There are a few in the glove box. Pick one,” Dean said, tossing his keys and a twenty dollar bill onto the bed.

* * * * *

 _Saturday, 9:30 a.m. EDT | 6:30 a.m. PDT_

Jared turned off the cassette player before reversing the Impala out of its spot, never once looking at the angel who'd simply materialized on the seat beside him. “What Dean wants you to do… Please, don’t.”

The angel gave him a puzzled look. “You wanted to discuss Genevieve.”

“I lied.” Jared looked in both directions down the street, finally picking one at random. “Dean’s looking for a reason to get angry. Let’s say you do what Dean says. You go to Sam, you offer him the choice to stay. If he agrees to stay, Dean gets pissed that his brother still wants to run away. If he says he wants to switch back, Dean gets pissed that Sam’s putting himself in danger.”

Castiel glanced at him, then went back to watching the road, silently introspective. It was _almost_ like how Misha would get, but when he got quiet, other people got nervous, because he was usually plotting something or coming up with some new scheme for world domination or something.

It wasn’t until Jared found a diner that the angel finally spoke up. “His brother has been a constant source of anger and frustration for him: his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.”

“Can I be honest with you?”

“I’m an angel of the Lord. You _should_ be honest with me.”

Jared had to laugh. “True.” He pulled into a parking spot by the front doors and turned off the engine. “Look, I’ve never met him, but I can at least kind of say I know Sam pretty well. I’ve had to get into the character’s head for the last three and a half years. And the one thing I can’t figure out is why Dean puts up with his shit.”

“Dean loves his brother. He went to Hell for Sam.”

“Doesn’t mean Dean’s rational about it. No one’s rational about love. That’s the point.”

Castiel looked toward the diner for a moment. “It’s not my place to judge Sam Winchester. His destiny has been shaped by forces he never would have chosen.”

“Castiel… Dean went to Hell for Sam and he repaid that by – by sleeping with a demon,” he protested, barely managing not to say ‘fucking’ in front of the angel, even though he was pretty sure Dean had said far worse in his time. “What kind of a selfish, spineless bastard does that?”

Castiel frowned, looking down for a moment before turning to regard Jared directly, with that full intensity of his stare that was usually reserved for only Dean. “I see.”

Jared couldn’t hide his shaky, relieved sigh. “I don’t want Dean hurt, only I don’t see a way out of that happening,” he admitted.

“And you would choose to stay here, apart from your family?”

Sighing, Jared gave an awkward shrug. “I'd miss them. God, I'd miss them – but... what I've got back there, other than the _people_ , it doesn't mean anything. I want to do more with my life. And if me and Sam staying like this means that I can _help stop the Devil_... God, how could I _not_?”

Castiel just looked at him, _through_ him, probably right down into his soul. It took a hell of a lot of effort for Jared to meet his eyes without squirming or looking away. The silence dragged on, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine, until finally Jared was ready to scream –

“And Dean?” the angel asked.

Startled, Jared asked, “What about him?”

“Do you... care about him? What I witnessed is uncharacteristic for him.”

 _Oh, God,_ Jared thought in horror, looking away, hoping the angel wouldn't recognize his blush for what it was. “He's – I mean, I sort of know him, but I _want_ to know him more. I could really...” _Love him?_ his mind supplied unhelpfully.

“I will... consider this,” Castiel said –

And was gone, in a flurry of thundering wings.


	8. Chapter 8

_Saturday, 10:00 a.m. EDT | 7:00 a.m. PDT_

Natural or not, there were a thousand things to learn – about acting, about Jared Padalecki, about life in a world with no monsters in general. Sam took endless notes – thank God for his stint at Stanford, which had taught him the benefit of good note-taking skills – and let Jensen drill him incessantly for an hour or so as they drank increasingly stale coffee.

“You’ve got a real talent for this,” Jensen said, scowling into the dregs of cold coffee in his mug. He got to his feet, stretching, and headed for the empty pot.

“I never realized how much there is to it,” Sam admitted, paging back through the pad of notes, thinking back to his one interaction with Hollywood a couple of years ago. “Did you do an episode about the movie... uh... Hell Hazers, I think?”

“Oh, God,” Jensen groaned, which was answer enough.

Sam laughed, watching him rinse and fill the coffee pot. “Yeah. I thought I was going to lose Dean there, you know. He loved it – and what’s her name... Tara Blakeley?”

Jensen nodded, his smile amused but almost a little shy. “Your brother’s kind of...”

Sam heard the unspoken observation and nodded; he’d long since stopped being really embarrassed about Dean, though Jensen’s... well, _self-restraint_ was kind of a nice change. “I’m going to go check on the dogs.”

Jensen looked back, surprised, and said, “Thanks. I’m glad they’ve settled down with you.”

“Me, too,” Sam admitted quietly, crossing the house to the back patio. He stepped outside and shivered, looking up at the sky automatically. It was overcast but didn’t seem likely to snow, though he wondered what the weather was like here in general. Apparently, Jensen and Jared spent more than half the year up here, only flying back to L.A. For breaks and the summer. There was a round of conventions, too – _conventions_ – which was just bizarre to even consider.

The dogs swarmed him as soon as they realized they weren’t alone, and demanded his attention for petting and throwing an increasingly-soggy tennis ball. He went as far as the bottom step, but the grass looked wet and he was in socks, not shoes. God, it was nice to not look at the backyard and think about what could be in the shadow of the trees, or whether or not something was buried there, or – well, anything strange at all. Here, the fence would keep the dogs from running away, rather than keeping anything from getting in.

When he came back inside, fingers numb and stiff, nose running, surrounded by now-happy dogs (Sadie apparently had forgiven him for not being Jared), Jensen called to him, “Hey, Sam! Come show Misha your new skills.”

Misha was at the kitchen table, head pillowed on his forearms. He looked up, blue eyes bleary, and asked hopefully, “Bendy yoga?”

“Omelet,” Jensen corrected, thumping a cup of coffee down in front of him.

“My idea’s more fun,” Misha said, dropping his head back again.

“He says that a lot,” Sam observed, getting the pan out of the drying rack.

“I’m right a lot.”

“Sam.”

There was no difference in the voices, but Sam _knew_. He spun around, scattering droplets of water that had collected against the edge of the pan –

“Wow. I look _good_ ,” Misha observed, looking at Castiel.

For once, the angel just... stared, and not at Dean – or Jensen, in this case. His blue eyes went very wide, all innocence and confusion.

“Told you,” Gabriel suddenly announced, stepping out from behind Castiel’s everpresent trench coat. His golden brown eyes went right to Sam and widened. “Hey, you domesticated a Winchester! Good job, boys. What’d it take?”

“Gabriel,” Castiel rasped, seeming to regain his composure. “Please.”

“That’s –” Jensen managed to choke out, finally tearing his eyes away from Castiel to look at Sam.

Sam nodded, dropping the pan on the stove with a clatter. “Is Dean okay? What’s going on?”

“Dean’s fine,” Castiel said.

Gabriel piped in, “I can get a signed statement from Jared, if you want.”

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment. “We need to talk, Sam.”

Sam nodded and went to leave the kitchen, before he looked back at Jensen. “I... think we all should,” he said, trying to figure out a way to tell Gabriel to get the hell out. “This affects them, too.”

Castiel tilted his head, his expression subtly changing. “If you wish,” he agreed.

“Living room,” Jensen said, since the kitchen was built for four. “Anyone want coffee?”

Gabriel raised a hand. “Five sugars,” he said, heading into the living room, calling for the dogs.

“Cas, you can’t get rid of him, can you?” Sam pleaded.

“I’m... almost entirely mortal, Sam,” Castiel said, sounding distressed. He looked down at himself, frowning. “I think I’d like coffee, too.”

“Huh,” Misha said softly.

“Jimmy drank it every morning,” Castiel said.

“Jimmy?”

“My host, Jimmy Novak,” Castiel told Misha.

“Great,” Jensen muttered, going to pour another mug of coffee. “Now everyone’s going to think he’s psychic – or that he’s got the inside scoop from Eric’s team.”

Misha huffed and got up to ransack the cabinets. “You’ve got to have granola bars or Pop Tarts or something, if I’m not getting my omelet.”

“Omelet?” Castiel asked hopefully, seeming a bit surprised.

Sam looked at Jensen, unable to hide his grin. “Why don’t we talk in here?” he suggested, and went back to the stove.

* * * * *

 _Saturday, 10:00 a.m. EDT | 7:00 a.m. PDT_

Jared came back with two large cups of coffee, two breakfast sandwiches, and two slices of apple pie, going on the assumption that the script writers had gotten that correct, too. He balanced everything and managed to kick on the door until Dean opened it for him.

“I got food. I hope that's okay,” he said, entering the room.

“I'm starving and we're late, so fine by me,” Dean agreed. “We'll have to hit a laundromat tomorrow or something. No time today if we're gonna chase those omens.”

Jared sat down at the table, next to the bags Dean had already packed. “You still want me coming with you?”

Dean gave him an inscrutable look as he took the opposite seat. “I know you were just trying to help –” He cut off, green eyes brightening as he watched Jared take the to-go platters out of the bag. “You got pie?”

Suddenly embarrassed, Jared nodded, fishing the plastic-wrapped silverware out of the bottom of the bag, along with a baggie of condiments. “Yeah. I – You like it, right? It's in the scripts, all the time.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Dean said, his grin turning warm. “Thanks.”

“Hey, you paid. I was just spending your money.”

“Yeah, well. You earned it yesterday. Jersey devils are nasty fuckin' bitches,” he said, breaking into the pie and coffee before the sandwich. “You, uh, get everything settled with Cas?”

“Yeah. I just... I want to know Jensen and the others are okay. I can't imagine he's taking this too well,” Jared admitted worriedly.

“Cas'll figure it out,” Dean said confidently. “He's not too up on how people work, but he's a good guy – when Heaven's not making him be a total dick.”

Jared laughed softly and nodded. “Yeah. He fit in, right from the beginning. Though, ah, I don't know if you'd feel the same about Misha.”

“Misha. The guy who plays Cas?”

“Yeah. He's... well, he's _not_ reserved or quiet at all. He's smart – scary smart, in fact – and he's not afraid of anything.”

“Other than the not-quiet part, sounds like Cas.”

“Yeah, but I don't see Cas hitting on anyone but – I mean, anyone,” he said, stumbling quickly over _that_ bit of fangirl speculation. “Misha flirts with anything that moves. No one's figured out why his wife hasn't killed him.”

That fact distracted Dean from Jared's little slip. “His _wife_?” he laughed. “Oh, man, we have to tell Cas about that.”

“You sure you want to get Cas thinking about that sort of thing?” Jared took another sip of the cheap diner coffee, loving the bitter bite, without all the fancy crap he usually had in the coffee on set.

“Heh. Probably right, after this morning.” Dean closed his eyes and savored the last bite of the pie. “You handled that pretty well, too. He has a habit of just popping in.”

Jared shrugged. “You get used to not having any privacy. Having Cas show up out of nowhere is nothing. At least he's not snapping towels at my ass or stealing my wardrobe.”

Dean laughed again and unwrapped his sandwich. “Extra bacon?”

Jared grinned. “I took a guess.”

“Mmm. You guessed right.”

* * * * *

 _Saturday, 11:10 a.m. EDT | 8:10 a.m. PDT_

“Wait – let me get this straight,” Sam said, chilled despite the cozy warmth of the kitchen. “I’m _Lucifer’s vessel_?”

“Starring role in the apocalypse,” Gabriel said, leaning his chair back on two legs. The table in front of him was littered with the remains of a plate of brownies that he and Misha had demolished.

“But not _now_ you’re not,” Castiel put in, gesturing with his fork. He’d eaten his way through half his omelet as if it were a sort of uncertain experiment, but he finally seemed to be relaxing and enjoying it. He was already on his third cup of coffee. “Vessels can’t be possessed here. If not for Gabriel, you’d be speaking to Jimmy Novak, not me.”

“That’d be fascinating,” Misha started to say.

“What about Jared?” Jensen asked from where he stood by the kitchen island, protectively close to Sam.

Castiel looked at his omelet, then back up at Jensen. “He was concerned for you and his family, but... He suggested we leave things as they are.”

Jensen hissed in a breath and looked away, expression masked.

Sam closed his eyes. “And Dean?”

“Dean wanted to know what _you_ want.”

Sam shook his head, looking at Castiel suspiciously. “He didn’t try to order you to get me back immediately?”

“He did,” Castiel sighed, sipping at his coffee, giving it another surprised glance. “But that was impossible at the time,” he added, looking at Gabriel, “and I’ve since had the opportunity to speak with Jared about this. The decision belongs solely to you two.”

Sam propped his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands, closing his eyes again. Lucifer’s vessel! On that alone, he was... well, fuck – the _fate of the world_ depended on him not being there. “Dean went to Hell for me, Cas,” he said quietly. “I can’t just throw that away.”

“Then you can’t go back,” Misha said.

Sam looked at him in surprise. “What?”

“If there’s even a _chance_ that Lucifer could...”

“Ride his ass?” Gabriel suggested helpfully.

Fearless, Misha shot the archangel a look. “Don’t help,” he scolded, turning back to Sam. “If your brother’s worried about you facing ghosts and things, how’s he going to feel if you’re facing _the Devil_? What would that do to him?”

Sam snorted unhappily. “Yeah, I was trying not to picture that. The whole thing – Cas,” he interrupted himself, looking to his right. “The seals?”

“Lilith is still trying to break them,” Castiel said. “Your brother’s teaching Jared the signs to look for, and the Host is still... on alert.”

“But without a vessel, if Lucifer gets out...”

“He can occupy a temporary vessel, if there’s a bloodline that would support it, but...” Castiel paused, considering his words.

“Let me, bro,” Gabriel interrupted. “It’s kind of like cramming a nuke up your ass. Stings a little, gives you radiation poisoning, explodes your head if you so much as twitch wrong. You, Sam, are at least the equivalent of a nuclear silo – a poorly-made Russian one from the Cold War era, but at least Lucifer can ride you for more than a few weeks without you spontaneously combusting.”

“God,” Sam said, his throat tight.

He felt a hand on his shoulder; for a moment, he could have imagined it was Dean. “What, so, Sam’s tailor-made for him, and these other vessels aren’t?” Jensen asked gruffly.

“Exactly,” Castiel agreed.

“Is he vulnerable in his temporary vessel?” Misha asked.

Castiel and Gabriel looked at each other thoughtfully. “I’d say yes,” Gabriel finally said, frowning.

“Then, if Sam and Jared go back, what’s stopping Heaven from switching them out again?” Misha asked, looking at Castiel. “I kind of had the impression that Heaven will do _anything_ to ensure that they win...”

“Absolutely,” Castiel said.

“Great,” Jensen muttered. “So we could be having this same damn conversation in a week or a month.”

Overwhelmed, Sam got up, chair scraping over the tile floor. “Can I – I’ll be right back,” he said, rushing out, needing to get away, to be alone with his thoughts, for at least a little while.

He went to his – Jared’s – bedroom and closed the door, sitting on the edge of the bed. His mind was spinning, unable to process everything –

Gabriel appeared in front of him, licking chocolate and brownie crumbs off his fingers. “Sam.”

Frustrated, Sam closed his eyes as if he could wish the archangel away. “Please, Gabriel.”

“Would it help if you could talk to Jared?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, here,” Gabriel said, and pressed two fingers to his forehead –

* * * * *

 _Saturday_

Sam opened his eyes and looked out on a beach, where he was sitting on a folding chair –

With his twin beside him, looking equally baffled.

“Oh,” Sam said quietly.

“Fuck,” Jared muttered. “Did, “Did, uh, Richard...”

“Richard? You mean, Gabriel? Yeah. That was an archangel.”

Jared’s eyes went wide. “I was _driving_.”

Sam winced. “The Impala? He wouldn’t be stupid enough to crash the Impala.”

Jared let out a shaky breath. “God. So, does this happen often?”

Sam looked around. The beach was entirely deserted. He could see a growth of pine trees, massive bushes covered with brilliant flowers, giving way to pure white sand sloping gently down to perfect turquoise water. “You learn to duck when angels go to touch you. But yeah, nothing about being a Winchester is ‘normal’.”

“Yeah.” Jared glanced at him uncomfortably. “How’s Jensen?”

“He’s, uh... freaked,” he said, deciding not to lie. “I think he misses you, but he’s trying to be nice.”

“He’s a good guy,” Jared said, looking down, a faint blush rising.

 _“Oh,”_ Sam said, abruptly putting two and two together and getting _Dean_. God, how had he lived practically in Dean’s back pocket for damn near twenty years and not known he was... well, bi?

“What about Dean?” he managed to ask.

The blush got worse. “He’s good. I mean, he’s pissed. But otherwise, good.” Jared took a deep breath, glancing at Sam again. “We took out a couple of Jersey devils.”

“Yeah, I heard. Good job,” Sam said, meaning it. “Those are tough little bastards.”

Jared gave him a sort of half-grin. “It was fun.”

Sam’s brows rose. “Fun?”

“Yeah. And, I mean... none of those kids will get eaten,” he added, embarrassed.

“There’s that,” Sam agreed, looking back out at the water, trying to process this all. “Misha’s... interesting.”

“Don’t let him scare you,” Jared said immediately. “He’s harmless.”

“So, uh, you two never...”

Jared shook his head. “I met Vicky. She’s an absolute sweetheart. If not...” He took a deep breath, slouching back in his chair. “I guess someone told you about me? Jensen?”

“Misha.”

Surprised, Jared asked, “He knew?”

“I think Misha knows everything,” Sam muttered. “Are you sure he’s not Castiel?”

Jared snorted. “Go ask him about his minions. Or his fanfic.”

“Uh huh.”

“So, what are we gonna do?”

Sam shrugged, raking his hands through his hair, also slouching down. “I have no idea.”

“Did they tell you about the Lucifer thing?”

“Yeah.” Sam couldn’t hide his shiver. “It doesn’t apply to you, right?”

“Apparently not.”

“Fuck,” Sam muttered.

“Have you met Genevieve yet?”

“She’s apparently coming to town in a couple of days.”

Jared nodded. “She’s nothing like Ruby,” he said, looking directly at Sam. “Please, if you’re still there... be nice to her. She’s a really good person.”

“Good enough for you to pretend to marry?”

It was Jared’s turn to flinch. “We discussed it. I didn’t deceive her.”

“Still, man, it’s not right.”

Jared sighed, frustrated. “No, but what the fuck else were we supposed to do? The press got some snaps of us out on a date, and suddenly there was all this... speculation. Before that, everyone thought me and Jensen had a thing, despite him being with Danneel.” He snorted, lips curving up slightly, and added, “Of course, they _also_ thought that after Genevieve and I hooked up, Jensen turned to Misha for solace.”

“God. This is so fucked up.”

“No kidding.”

Sam idly kicked at the sand, looking out at the water. Part of him wished to just stay here – no decisions, no pressure, no demon blood, no threat of Lucifer...

“Why would you –”

“You really should –”

They laughed, looking at each other, and Jared said, “You first.”

Sam nodded. “Why would you want to give up what you have? Fame, money, a normal life...”

“I wouldn’t, except... this is _better_. I’m actually doing something important, not getting paid to look pretty and recite lines.”

“Do you have any idea how many times Dean and I have almost died? Hell, how many times we _have_ died?”

“Assuming they covered all of them in the show, yeah. I’ve got an idea.”

Sam shook his head. “And you’d still do it? Walk into it eyes open?”

“You did, after college.”

Sam winced, feeling the old ache of Jessica’s death. “Demons killed Jess. I didn’t have a choice.” He looked at Jared and asked, “Are you getting visions?”

“Nothing. Castiel said there’s no taint of Azazel’s blood in me.”

“Count yourself lucky,” Sam sighed. “If we stay like this, Dean will hate you. He’ll hate both of us.”

“I don’t think so. Maybe at first, but I think he’d understand.”

“Dude, I know my brother.”

“We slept together last night.”

Sam opened his mouth, then turned away, kind of choking on his words. “Or not,” he finally managed to say.

“Look, when two people grow up so close, sometimes they don’t even see when someone’s changed.” Jared sighed, turning in his chair to face Sam. “Ask Jensen. He’s my best friend. He knows how I feel, even if he won’t admit it.”

“Dean doesn’t change. He never changes.”

Jared shook his head. “You’re wrong. You’re too close to see it. He _is_ changing, but not for the better. Sam, one of these days, you’re going to _break_ him. The demon blood, Ruby, running away... It’s going to be too much for him.”

“How would you know?” Sam snapped angrily.

“Because I’ve sat in on the meetings where they discuss Dean’s motivation. I’ve sat with Jensen as he’s proposed changes to Dean’s lines. I’ve seen next week’s script, Sam,” Jared said earnestly. “Sometimes, you get to a point in a relationship where you have to break up while you can still be friends. Because if you don’t, you’ll end up hating each other.”

“But he’s my brother!”

“Yeah. And you’re his brother. I know, Sam. I’ve got a brother and sister back home – not to mention Jensen.”

Sam closed his eyes. “It’s a coward’s way out. I can’t throw you to this –”

“Do you just not get it?” Jared demanded. “You _can’t_ make me do this, Sam. If either of us says no, it all goes back to the way it was.”

Sam looked over at him.

Jared raised his brows expectantly.

“God,” Sam said, closing his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Jared... I still love him. He’s my brother. I’ll always love him. Could you just tell him...”

“Yeah. Tell Jensen –” He cut off, his voice choked.

“Yeah. I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click to read the follow up, [Vow of Silence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/171831).


End file.
